Endings
by ingeniousmacabre
Summary: She's the best at what she does. He's not so bad, either. So when the rival organizations, The Bellatorum and Triplus, send their best spies on a war path for the most coveted technology in the world, things can get a little... diggity. AU espionage fic, featuring most other characters. Rated T for mature themes and serious language.
1. Prologue

**Authors's Note:**

It started as a joke in my mind, really, because I love the spy genre and Pitch Perfect, and I sorta got writer's block for my other fic. I got to mulling the idea in my head, and I thought, what the hey. Might as well. There is a severe lack of AU fics out there for this ship, so here's mine. As always, I'd like to know what ya'll think, because I really don't know anymore. Haha. :)

Finally, I would just like to say that I am not a spy, and I have no idea what I'm doing. I would appreciate creative output from ya'll, and I really would like to take this time to thank you in advance. Please don't take this espionage thing too seriously, as it comes from my imagination and has no shred of truth to it. With that said, if someone out there would care to read this, I'll try my best to keep writing. No promises, tho. :))

Thanks guys. Hope you like it.

.:.

* * *

PROLOGUE

* * *

SOMEWHERE. ANYWHERE. IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE...

The right side of her face is swollen, and there's still that tiny tingling of a voice in her mind that reminds her to lay down the fucker who had done this to her. Her hair is matted to the side of her face and neck, sticking to the skin with her sweat and blood. Well, mostly _her_ blood. She was on a record, for that matter, when all of a sudden, a needle jabs into her arm and it's game over. Oh, well. Whatever. She'll lay these fuckers down in a moment. Right now, she just needs to sleep.

The drug has made her so groggy that it takes her a total of five seconds to register that someone had come into the white-wash room and is now kneeling in front of her sitting form. Normally, it would take her less than a split.

"Finally, room service. You got some wifi in here? I feel like tweeting this."

_Rebeca Mitchell. 27. Works for a shadow organization that is only ever known as The Bellatorum. The Warriors. So much skill packed into such a tiny body; the ultimate Trojan Horse. She will wipe the floor with your sorry asses before you even realize you're not wearing pants anymore._

"I hate to break it to you, but that's not in my job description."

_James Swanson. 25. Works for the highly non-existent organization dubbed by many as Triplus. Don't even try, because you do not stand a chance. In a world where charm is deceptive, he is Frank fucking Abagnale._

She can feel him brushing the strands of her stiff hair off her neck. Strangely gently, she feels a semblance of a palm on the side of her face, but she doesn't have enough energy (or blood in her system) to hold her head up long enough to get a good look.

_Today is a good day to die, _she thinks.


	2. Don't Stop the Music

PART I

SATURDAY, CLUB DE LA ROUX (BELARUS): 0236

The beat gets her gasping and nauseous and she's trying to swallow mouthfuls of air, but he just won't let her.

_Fuck. Make this difficult for me, why don't you..._

She lifts her leg up on the desk in front of him to get a better angle, as she pushes against it and uses the force to pull, with him resisting the motion. _You are making it worse for yourself, idiot._ They're both panting now, the struggle is getting heavier. Her arms feel like lead, but she is good at what she does. And there is no way in hell this one is getting away from her.

She can feel him slowly still behind the tight fabric she had strung around his neck exactly thirteen minutes ago.

Make that fourteen.

Finally releasing her grip, the huge man known as Fernando Almonzo (_what a pimp name_) slumps to the floor, his face purple from being suffocated with the tie of her silk gown. _That was work_, she thinks. _I'm gonna need a raise for this._

Her hand instinctively draws behind her ear as she speaks.

"Next time," she says between exhausted panting, "warn me before sending me after Santa Clause." She kicks his dead weight, the flab of his belly jiggling at the force.

_"Christmas was two weeks ago, what are you talking-"_

"You could have mentioned that the fucker gained, like, what, a hundred pounds? Two? Shit, I can't feel my arms." Her tired body slumps on the bed in relief. What a night. She can still hear the pounding of heavy music just outside the VIP lounge, something Rihanna spewed out of her ass, probably. Their little struggle had thrashed the lounge almost unrecognizable. Clean up time.

_"Oh my god, did you strangle him?"_ Confused noises from the other end (sounds like the gurgling of a carbonated drink), but she just rolls her eyes as she picks up the traces of herself from the floor: a pair of Louboutins, her purse, her lipstick.

"Calm your tits, okay. He wasn't going to fall for a roofie-"

_"That's the eight time you've deviated from protocol, Beca. A is going to lose her shit."_

She goes straight for the liquor table and takes the largest bottle.

"Well, A doesn't have to know, now, does she?" she says, opening up the glass bottle and absently pouring the contents all over the corpse and nearby areas. "Unless you tell her..."

She pauses. This is a gamble.

_"Goddamnit, Beca, I can't keep covering for you."_

She takes a swig from the open bottle before she continues emptying it into the cashmere carpet. Damn, that's some good alcohol. What a waste.

"That's why I love you. You always have that common sense you never listen to."

_"Bitch."_

"Whore."

_"You have thirty seconds."_

"I'll see you in twenty," she says, taking out a lighter from her purse, flicking it on and letting the really good whiskey catch fire. It'll be forty seconds before anyone notices. Luckily, she'll be well out of the usual suspects circle by then. She drops from the window with nothing but a sleek cord of fabric around her waist to guide her fall.

* * *

*Crash*

Chloe nearly spills her diet coke on the van's equipment when something hits the roof of the vehicle. Curse Beca and her stupid antics. It's a miracle the woman's still alive past the age of 25. She jumps out of the van to perform a damage check._  
_

Beca is lying flat across the top of the van, sprawled in the cold night air with nothing but a pair of lacy undergarments and her open dressing gown.

"How'd I do?" Beca asks, breathless and looking more than a little bodily harmed.

"Oh my god! You couldn't take the stairs?"

They waste little time, Beca getting down from her precarious position, wincing a bit as Chloe helps her into the van.

"I had to improvise. The plan was shit anyway, and you know it."

"Five floors... _five floors_!"

"I said twenty seconds."

"Christ, Beca. This is why we can't have nice things."

"Well... I'm nude," she says, and her look implies _so don't give me this shit about protocol right now._

They speed away, another complete operation tucked into their belt.

* * *

_Aubrey Posen, Rebeca "Beca" Mitchell, and Chloe Beale. Also known as The Alphabet. Three of the best freelancers in the known world. They head The Bellatorum, an organization known only in the highest echelons of espionage. Mess with them, and it's the wrath of hell to the third degree for you..._

* * *

"Did you even get-shit!"

Chloe has no choice but jerk the wheel when out of nowhere, a large armored truck cuts them off right across. The defensive maneuver sends them ricocheting into the air and landing upside down, turning them into lettuce in a salad spinner. The thin strap of their seat belts are the only things between them and them in past tense.

Of all the times they could possibly get ambushed, it would be tonight. Of all nights. This was a simple slip and slide. Drug him, get in, get it, get out. What the hell. Barden rookies could pull this off while playing beer pong, for god's sakes. And here they are, playing bump car in the middle of the damned freeway, fucking safety first. It doesn't help that Chloe isn't even cut out to be tech support. They should have gotten C-Rose or Lilly for this shit, then maybe they would've gotten away with the driving. But no, she had to be paired with the one Bella who had failed the intensive driving course more times than Lindsay Lohan went to rehab.

Beca feels it in her cracked ribs when the seatbelt bruises her side. _Damnit, this is gonna leave a mark._

The eight seconds it takes for the two of them to regain composure is enough time for two masked figures to come down from the armored truck.

"Beca..."

A disoriented Chloe motions to Beca's side of the car, where a pair of nice leather shoes (Armani, by Beca's estimates) walks towards them, crouching just enough to meet the two women with what they can only assume to be a cheeky grin on the other side of the thick fabric of the mask.

"Ladies."

The man's eyes (definitely a man by no stretch of the imagination) are subtly drawn to the fact that Beca is upside down... semi-naked... wearing no less than Victoria's Secret and a flimsy fabric that's barely covering her arms... and she's _upside down_...

Beca rolls her eyes. Men.

"Enjoying the view there, aren't we?"

So quickly does his eyes snap back at hers. And is that a hint of embarrassment?

"I believe you have something we need," he says, his smooth voice dampened by the cloth. Beca does not miss the Glock 17 in his right.

"Sorry pal, I'm on break. Catch me again later, when I'm feeling a bit more limber. I'll be standing by my usual corner," she deadpans.

"Don't make me take it from you."

"I'd like to see you try."

He doesn't miss the sincerity in her voice when she says this, because damn, it's hard to miss. This woman will put up a fight that he's not sure he can win. He also does not miss the reddening of her side, the bluish hue of bruising starting to form. _Probably a few broken ribs, a hit from the back. Or the result of a fall_, he thinks. His clinical observations does not take more than a split second, as he nods to his comrade on the other side of the vehicle, Chloe's side. As soon as he does, the man on the other side grabs Chloe's mouth and stifles her shriek.

Beca is temporarily distracted, and he takes the opportunity to make use of his lightning reflexes.

"What the-" But too late, as he recoils his hand from her... panties.

"Wow. Okay. If you wanted to feel me up-"

"I was talking about this, actually," he says, holding up a small flash drive as Beca manages to pull back her disbelief quickly enough. No one knew she had that there. No one. But if he had surprised her, she's not showing it.

"It's encrypted so-"

"I am insulted that you think I would fall for that. Really."

_Fuck_. Beca bites her lip so slightly now, and doesn't even try to hide her annoyance. This is not good. Only now does he let his gun's barrel turn towards her.

"Now, you ladies be good and don't try anything. We'll just walk away with our prize, if we may."

He backs away slowly, cautiously, as his comrade hurries back inside the armored truck, himself following. Beca and Chloe have no choice but to watch with absolute horror and disgust. No, _this_ is why we can't have nice things. When they have sped off, Beca does not try to hide her rage.

"Fuck!" Beca slams the dashboard hard.

"Beca..." Chloe's voice is filled with concern, as she reaches over and parts a bit of dressing gown, revealing a spattering of blood on Beca's side.

* * *

As soon as he closes the door to the passenger's seat, he shucks the mask off his head. Though a job well done for them, he doesn't particularly enjoy using the Bellas to their advantage. It isn't very honorable, and, thievish as they may be, he believed in integrity in their work.

It's difficult enough being part of the number one espionage organization in the world, never mind that it isn't official. He's been jet lagged more times than he can keep up, but he loves his job because of one thing: art. There is an artistry to their work. It's a beautiful thing to create a masterpiece of movements that allowed them to perform daring tricks of the trade, but if all they're going to do is illegally park an armored truck in the middle of the freeway, then he'd rather sit at home and watch Le Mis, thank you very much.

"And _score_," he hears from the driver's side, as he hands him the small packet of vital information. He wonders how such a small thing can carry so much damage.

"Thank you... Mr. Happy," the driver comments, after he hands it with less than a smile.

"It doesn't exactly take a genius to do a hit and run."

"Maybe not, but I honestly don't care right now," the driver replies, kissing the little device before he pockets it and revs off.

"Bumper-"

"Those dumb bitches had it coming, anyway. Jesus, a slip and slide? My dick could do a better slip and slide than that."

"Really did not need to know that," the man from behind them says, removing his mask and putting on a pair of glasses too big for his face.

"My sentiments exactly." They try to shake away the mental image.

* * *

_...unless you're one of the T's. Over the years, intelligence have gathered enough data that supports the existence of your favorite urban legend, the Triplus. More commonly known as The Bad Boys of Espionage, they are the most heartless, ruthless sons of bitches that have never crossed our radar._

_Although most of their members remain nameless, there are a few notable characters that you should be on the lookout for. Their leader, also known as "The Bumper" for his uncanny ability to bump every other criminal out of the most wanted spot, is priority number one. _

_The organization operates on the premise of direct democracy, making it all the more impossible to identify any one mastermind, but there is, however, one that you should look out for._

_Remember the name James Swanson, because that's all we've got. Twelve years operating in and possibly out of the United States, the man's got a rep sheet longer than most of Interpol's most wanted. So if you see him, if by the slimmest chances you get to actually verify this son of a bitch, do the world a favor and take him out. You have the express permission of half the world's nations to do so._

_This concludes this briefing. Do you have any questions?_

* * *

"No, sir," the blond young man answers, his English accent not wavering.

"Then that would be all."

In a sleekly furnished conference room, he closes the dossiers he has on each of the main players, stands up, and is about to head out.

"And Luke..."

He stops.

"Try to be careful. Things like this, they can get messy."

"I'll do my best," Luke says, heading out of MI6 HQ.


	3. It's Raining Men

The thing about James Swanson is that he is such a charmer. He could melt his way into any woman's heart just as well as he could melt his way into her panties. He was never one for subtlety; it's always worked out that way for him. A flash of his smile, a slight crinkling of his eyes, a mischievous arch of his eyebrows, and women fall-no, they _crash_- so fast, it's already breakfast before they've had last night's dessert. This skill comes in so handy at times, especially because behind every successful man is a woman who holds the key to his heart, and in this game, it's all about having the right keys for the right locks.

But that's not even his most lethal asset.

While being rather charming and dazzlingly gorgeous has it's perks, he was never one to wear out this one talent in favor of another, oh no. Charm is deceptive, after all. That's his motto. His real skill is in subterfuge.

If he can get away with a wink and a slight of hand, he will. And of course, he can. His romanticism is a simple curtain for his razor sharp eyes and a penchant for really skilled intellectual guesses. Call it his gut feeling. It doesn't hurt that he's got the reflexes of Spiderman, with the Spidey-sense to match, and he brags about it, too. He's a geek that way.

* * *

_"You good there, Jesse?"_

"I'm good man. All clear."

_"How you holding up?"_

"I just came from a two-forty AM flight from Belarus, Benji. I'm peachy, thanks."

Jesse removes his hand from the comms in his ear and straightens out the cuffs on his blue suit for the evening. It's eight, and he's going to be late, so he buttons his suit and takes a good look at himself in the mirror.

If he were a girl, he'd totally jump his bones right now. Definitely. But the idea doesn't form as concretely in his mind, because he's absolutely exhausted. The assignment in Belarus was really rather stupid, especially since they could've just done it when the Bellas came back here, saving everyone the time and mileage. But no, Bumper had insisted.

He heads on out, where his idea of a great evening would be spent chatting up the wives of several influential men. Not that he would think it a chore, it's just that he's been too good at it already, there's no craft, no challenge.

Well, it is kind of a chore, now that he thinks about it. So he readies his mind for another boring evening out with the socialites. If only he had known how wrong he would be.

* * *

The thing about Rebeca Mitchell is that she is such a bitch. That's all there is to it. But she's a powerful bitch, in every sense of the word. She's the epitome of badass, and she's not going to try to hide that. Modesty has never suited her, and she only goes with something that fits her style. She's classy that way.

She's also pretty dangerous, in that she's _pretty_, and _dangerous, _the most lethal of combinations. Her skills encompass varied fields, from seduction to deduction. That said, because of her uncanny ability to account for almost every single factor in an op, her real talent (and the reason why she's such a pain in the ass) is in second-to-second improvisation. She relies on her gut like a tourist relies on a passport, and most days, it saves her life. On really good days, it saves the lives of others as well. Impulse is everything. That's her motto.

Which is why she forgoes the hospital bed for a five-star suite at the Ritz, where she knows some of the Trebles would most likely be tonight.

She had slipped into one of Chloe's tube dresses, since most of her own dresses are backless, strapless, and just generally... _less_. This op would need a little more subtlety, especially since she doesn't want to be questioned as to why her back looks like it was hit by an armored truck.

_Damn those Trebles_, she thinks. They won't get away that easily.

She is just about to zip herself up when she hears knocking. Her reflexes place her beside the door, a letter opener poised in her hand, within seven seconds.

"Who is it?" she calls.

"Beca? Is that you?"

Beca opens the door to a glamorously made-up but still pretty shocked-looking Stacie, a fellow Bella whose core skill set resides between her legs.

"What are you doing here? I though you were in Belarus?" Stacie says as she enters the room, her long, blond waves cascading over her Vera Wang.

"I was. Just came back," Beca replies, relaxing the makeshift weapon a bit so she can finish zipping up Chloe's menacingly tight tube. God, she hopes it doesn't make her look fat.

Stacie pauses. She's not a bad spy at all, which is why she is quickly able to make the connection, her eyes growing at the realization.

"Oh my god! You didn't!"

"It happened, okay," she says plainly, picking out a nice pair of earrings from the dresser. "I'll get it back."

"Does Aubrey know? That the Trebles have it?" Stacie's hand has flown to her chest, her own heart rate making up for Beca's calm tone.

"I don't know, but it doesn't matter," Beca replies through her reflection, "I'll get it back, maybe tonight."

"Shit, I thought this wasn't even going to be a real op tonight. I'm just here to survey." Stacie sits dejectedly on the bed.

"Dude, calm down. I'll take care of it. Just... do what you do. I'll be right ahead of you," Beca says, trying out a showy, diamond-encrusted necklace around her neck. Nope. Someone would choke her with that. A thin silver band? Still nope. It practically screams _I'm single_. She finally settles for her normal necklace, a tiny locket that dangles right in the middle of her breasts, hidden in the cut of her dress, sexy and mysterious.

"I can't believe they did it again," Stacie muses.

For the longest time, the Triplus have been getting away with 'using' the Bellas to their own advantage. Because The Bellatorum is not a completely ghost organization like the Triplus, they suffer a weakness which the Triplus have, time and again, employed against them. Things got to a head last year, when the Triplus had pulled off their best Bella-heist yet, stealing a total of thirteen billion worth of information right beneath the Bellas' noses. Quite literally, too, as the data chips were hidden in the fabric of Aubrey's hospital gown when she was recuperating from the exact op that tasked her to deliver it. The Bellas suffered a terrible loss that year, not so much from the money, but more from Aubrey's terrible guilt at her inability to finish the job. The Bellas had vowed vengeance.

"They can all go to hell," Beca says, and she means it.

"Wait, so, Aubrey knows you're here, right?" Stacie should know better than to ask that. But since she doesn't...

"Yeah, I told her in the plane," Beca replies. _Sort of..._

* * *

.

...

"What the hell, Beca? Are you out of your mind?!"

Aubrey nearly shoots her head off from what they can tell via the video call. Beca and Chloe are in their private jet back to HQ. Breaking the news to Aubrey is better done with a nice little screen between her and them.

"Ow!" Beca winces as Chloe tries to bandage up her ribs, her first-aid skills being of significantly more use than her driving skills. "It was only a light drop," Beca counters.

"Light drop?! You jumped out of five stories with chopped-up curtains, Beca. _Curtains_. What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking twenty seconds. Ow!"

"Sorry," Chloe says, trying to be more gentle with her movements.

"Beca," Aubrey says, her tone betraying a touch of concern, "you can't go on doing whatever it is that you get in your head to do. We have a protocol, there is a process that we follow. That's why it's called _protocol. _You could have gotten yourself killed."

"Oh my god, chill with the dramatics, okay. I'm still in one piece."

"'Still'! See, that's what I'm talking about." Aubrey sighs, her exasperation emanating from the two-dimensional screen. She seems to contemplate something, and when she opens her mouth to speak, they know she has decided.

"You leave me with no choice. If I don't see more caution in your operations, Beca, I'll have to suspend you."

"Are you serious?!" Beca is incredulous. _No fucking way. _"Ouch!"

"Sorry, Beca, but your ribs.."

"I have no choice!" Aubrey says, a different, sterner look taking over. "You're too unpredictable. You're unstable and unreliable. And it's going to compromise us."

"At least I get the job done, Aubrey!"

A pause. That was a low blow, even for Beca. She opens her mouth to take it back, wishes the video would lag then and there. Damn her stupid mouth.

"It's 'A' to you. And I want you back here for debriefing _tonight_," Aubrey finishes coldly, as the screen clicks and Beca and Chloe stare at their own reflections. Beca heaves a sigh. Which makes her wince.

"You need to get to a hospital," Chloe says, rinsing away the blood from the cloth she's using.

"I'm going to the Ritz," Beca says, stating it with a tone that says _don't even try._

Chloe looks drained, exasperated, and so full of Beca's shit, but she still manages to calmly say, "I don't think that's a great idea, Becs."

"You don't even know what I have in mind."

"My grandmother always said 'there are no good ideas at four in the morning'."

"Sorry, I don't take advice from dead people."

* * *

Which brings her now to the huge ballroom of the Ritz-Carlton, surrounded by a goldmine of persons of interest, dealing with flirty heads of state, glares from multiple wives and mistresses, and a motherfucking ribcage that makes her want to overturn the buffet table.

She moves around casually, making happy little small talk with her tinkling laugh and carefully-gauged smiles, all surface movements. In reality, she's doing a hell of a lot more than simply mingling.

Her eyes have already darted to several potential targets, her mind on overdrive. Beca's intellect is a well-oiled precision instrument meant to calculate probabilities to the detailed percent, but to most, she just looks like that girl from New York, daughter of that hotshot from Washington who got his fortune from that big business in Asia. She sips her Martini as Anna the Socialite, but her brain is working as a full-time Bella.

Which is why the next comment throws her off. Bigtime.

"Would you like a cigarette?"

_English accent, well-bred, military stance, trained in Monckton, mid-twenties, ambidextrous, focused, hidden intent, single..._

_Shit._

Beca mentally processes all the probable details with a nonchalant glance from her periphery.

"I don't smoke."

"Of course not. Doesn't mean you wouldn't want one."

They have their backs to the table, facing in the same direction and not caring to look at each other. It's spy-talk for _I don't fucking trust you, _so she's cautious in the way that she always is, which is to say, not at all.

"What's the MI6 doing here?" she says between sips.

"It's a rather long story. Why don't we head up to my room to talk about it?"

She can't help the little smirk that crawls up the side of her mouth.

"Unless you've mistaken me for a high-class hooker, I think I'm good, thanks."

"Waiting for someone?"

She opens her mouth to speak, but doesn't get the chance.

"She is, actually. Sweetheart, is this man bothering you?"

_Well would you look at that, _she thinks. _It's raining men._

* * *

Jesse had made his way down to the ballroom fashionably (and totally) late, but since it's just a reconnaissance anyway, he's not too worried. Plenty of time to chat up plenty of women (and maybe get one-or two-on the go).

For crowded ops like these, placement is everything. It is paramount to know most, if not ever, person in the room, where they are at any given moment, and to use this to advantage. He weaves his way through the plethora of signature dresses, makes a couple of light observations, all while remaining largely invisible to most everyone. So when he sees her, he had been a little more than surprised.

There she was, standing with her back to the table, definitely more beautiful right-side-up. Infinitely. He wonders why he didn't get a file on her, a Bella. She must be new... no, that can't be. He could tell from her eyes the first time they 'met', that is not a woman who doesn't know what she's doing. He debates as to whether or not he should go up to her, introduce himself, see if she gets a little riled. The mere thought sends up a rush of adrenaline, and god knows he needs some kind of excitement tonight. Besides, there's no harm in getting to know the enemy a little bit.

"Hey Benji, what's the stat on the players tonight?"

_"What? No, no stat. It's just us. Why, you see anyone?"_

"No one, really."

He has just about made up his mind when he gets cut off by a dashing young gentleman in an English suit.

_Fucking MI6._

He makes a quick dodge away from them, but he cannot shake her off his mind. She's stunning tonight, but she shouldn't be. Judging from their earlier encounter, she should be in the hospital. In the ER, even. Against his better judgement, he positions himself so that he would be able to read their lips.

_"What's the MI6 doing here?" _An excellent question.

_"It's a long story. Why don't we head up to my room to talk about it?"_

She smirks, and it's all the encouragement he needs. He grabs two glasses of champaign as he walks towards them.

"Waiting for someone?"

"She is, actually," he interrupts them. "Sweetheart, is this man bothering you?"

He doesn't miss the flash of surprise that accompanies the slight arch of her brow. It's rather endearing, so he moves in and gives her a peck on the cheek before he positions himself possessively next to her and takes her martini to give her a glass of champaign.

If Beca had thought today was full of surprises, she never would have seen this one coming. She hadn't seen him in the party before, so she assumes he's some douche gatecrasher looking to get lucky. But then, she gets a better glimpse of his shoes. Armani.

Of course. How could she have missed that voice. So she does what she does best.

"Oh, no. He was just being friendly," she says, giving Luke her most genuine fake smile and fitting herself more snugly beside Jesse.

Luke nods cordially, not even remotely vexed. "Where are my manners," he says, extending his hand. "I'm Luke, and you're late," he adds warmly and with good humor, as Jesse takes his hand. "Didn't see you around earlier."

"Yeah, I like being fashionably late. It's kind of my thing. Jesse," he replies, returning the smile.

Beca is looking back and forth between the two men, but her brain is overheating. She had barely eaten, slept, or rested in almost forty-eight hours, and her body needs morphine. One spy to analyze at a time, please.

"Well, you boys seem to know your shit, so I think I'll go ahead. It's getting pretty late," Beca says through her champaign glass.

She had been beautiful from afar, and breathtaking up close, but Jesse's eyes are far more keen than the average. He notices the tiny droplets of sweat forming at the back of her neck, and he recognizes her erratic breathing even as she says the words. She is not alright.

"I'll see you soon, _sweetheart_," she says to Jesse, and he knows, he just _fucking knows_, that it is not meant to be a pleasant next time.

She leaves them, and as soon as they are out of earshot, her hand shoots to her comms, while her other hand wraps itself around her torso.

"Stacie, I can't get it tonight. I'm calling it."

Beca has figured that there is no way that her plan would work. She had hoped she would have enough energy to 'coax' (threaten on the pain of castration) a random Treble so that they would give her back what was rightfully hers, but with the MI6 somehow on their trail, and with him, whoever he is, appearing out of nowhere like _no shit, _she can't pull this off. Not to mention, morphine. Now.

She downs the last of her champaign aggressively and tosses her champaign glass into a plant pot... somewhere. She has the highest pain tolerance amongst the Bellas, but she knows it messes with her concentration, and she's an all-out kind of girl. She's in it to win it, and if she can't get her focus up, then it'll just have to wait. Right now, all she can think of is drugs. And lots of it.

"Stacie? You there? Bitch, you better answer me."

A click on the other line. Heavy breathing.

"Beca? Beca, not right now. I'm in the middle of..." raggedy breathing, "an op. The left hand of India's top gun. I need... a moment."

Beca has to lean on the wall as she winces, both from the pain and the incredibly annoying circumstance. Knowing Stacie, that kind of breathing isn't because she's strangling someone.

"Are you serious right now? Are you in our room?"

"Have to go, Beca. Sorry, just... give me a few hours. I think I can crack this." Click.

Beca leans her forehead on the wall, hitting it with a thump. She estimates around thirty or forty minutes before her brain goes on automatic shutdown and she passes out, stupid mental faculties. She needs something, and she needs it fast.

Okay, one last shove.

Where do they keep the first aid kits around here? Infirmary? Anywhere? Did she pass by any sign of emergency facilities? She starts walking again, moving towards the exits (worst case scenario is fainting in the middle of a crowded place), when she feels a hand on her shoulder turning her towards the direction of the elevators.

* * *

**AN**: I'm going out on a limb here. I would love to here your thoughts on this, especially because, and I can't emphasize this enough, I am not a spy. :))

Also, I have never been to the Ritz-Carlton in LA, so please forgive me if I missed something.

The upcoming chapters will further explain the context of the story, so yeah. I might not be able to update this within the next few days, just a heads up. The next chapter of Halfway There (my other fic) is also in the works, but I don't think I'll be able to put it up as fast.

Thank you so much for reading, ya'll. :) Reviews would be great!


	4. Dances with Wolves

"You're not looking too good."

His hand on her shoulder guides her gently to a different direction, and she lets him, because she doesn't have a choice. She's been made, and she knows her options. So she levels out, she tries to control her breathing, and she keeps her hands to the side of her black tube dress. She can't afford to show how her ribs are on fire right now. She'll get out of this. Just, play it cool as of the moment.

They walk the halls of the lavish hotel looking like a couple, in most respects, but Beca's face is set into a disinterested mask. She may not be in total physical control, but her emotions are still intact. She's been in these situations before, with the Russian Mafia, the Triad, other wannabe gangs, etc. Always and always, it's the same. They would identify a physical weakness and would take over from there. Always and always, Beca has found herself out of such situations, because she's Beca. There's a special circle in hell reserved for those who cross her, and she'll even usher them there.

They get into the elevators, just the two of them. She keeps still beside him. Later, she'll ask questions. For now, she's not going to give him the satisfaction.

"You're awfully quiet for someone who's in a lot of pain."

"I'm not." The way she says it, he can almost believe her. Almost.

There's a twitch in her left hand that tells him she's resisting her muscles' impulse to bring it to her torso, her stance is slightly skewed to the right, which is where most of the pain is, most likely. There are droplets on her nape and upper lip, and the hood of her eyes gives it away. She's not running, because they both know she can't.

The elevators open. Though Beca may seem resigned to her temporary predicament, no good operative ever stops thinking about the options. Another last push, she thinks.

_Escape... no windows in the halls, bay view, master suite... weapons, weapons... curtain rod, vase, tassel, window shards, hair... setting, carpeted, multiple-room, fully-furnished..._

He opens the door, and as soon as he closes it behind her, they dance.

So quickly does she turn around and take a defensive stance that he almost doesn't dodge the vase she throws at him, crashing above his head ("Whoa, whoa, take it easy!"), her hair flows down as she removes her long barrette/knife, getting closer to him, and he dodges her flimsy swings ("Jesu- I swear, I am not trying to-"), she breathes heavily, every breath a torture as she takes another vase and tries to bash it over his head, but he catches her wrists and maneuvers them so that they fall on the bed, her face unable to hide a slight wince as her back hits the Egyptian cotton. All that within fifteen seconds.

They're both panting. They're both exhausted. But only one of them is in searing pain.

"Calm down, jesus." He has her wrists pinned over her head, and he would have had a quip about the kinkiness of it all except Beca looks just about ready to take his manhood and pass it through a shredder.

"What do you want," she huffs, out of energy to make it sound more sinister.

_That is an excellent question, actually_, he thinks.

"Like I said, you're not looking too well, so I thought I could give you something for the pain. Can I release you now? Will you promise not to kill me? My life insurance doesn't cover 'death by hair clip'."

She is still glaring at him, panting, disbelief coloring her tired eyes. She doesn't need body language to say _I don't fucking trust you either._

_Of all the women I could be on top of_, Jesse thinks, suddenly regretful. "Look at me, please. Am I telling the truth?"

She does. For all her mental haziness, she can tell that he's not lying, so she relaxes back, and rolls her eyes for emphasis.

"Great," he says, easing up on her. "Glad to _not_ hear you say you won't be killing me any time soon."

"I wasn't trying to kill you." _Not yet_, she thinks. He finally gets off of her, taking her weapon with him, along with her comms ("Can't have you calling an ambush, now, can we?").

"Also, the drive's not on me, so if you're thinking of pulling another stunt like that just to get closer, this is me, saving you the hassle," he says, as he goes straight to the other room, taking off his suit jacket as he does.

_Oh, he's good._

"Then again," he adds from the other room, "if you really wanted to feel me up, all you had to do was ask."

Beca cannot help the eye-roll that the comment gets out of her.

"Wow. That almost grazed my standard of impressiveness-ss."

The last syllable is barely out when she has to bite her tongue at the sharp pain. She grimaces and wraps her arms around her side. _Shit_. That play was exhausting. Not to mention the lack of 'well' in her general wellbeing. So much for effort.

She had to at least give it shot, in the off-chance the drive was still on him. It was a slim chance, but a chance nonetheless. She's not too worried now; for some reason, sometime between their quasi-conversation in the ballroom and the moment she left him with Mr. MI6, he has taken an interest in her. The only reason he could possible have for taking her here would be to use her against the Bellas, keep her as a hostage because of her fragile state. That means that she is only valuable to him alive, a comforting thought. She'll cooperate, for now. Once she's back on her feet, she'll give him hell. That's certain.

"So, where's you partner? Lady... friend?"

She's jolted out of her murderous daydream when she hears him from the other room. He comes back with an ice pack and a bottle of pills and hands both to her. She stares at his hands, unable to grasp everything that is wrong with this picture.

"Alright then," he says, as he opens up the bottle and takes a pill himself, dry swallowing it. "You want me to test the ice too?"

"Thanks," she says, in no real tone of sincerity as she warily takes both from him. There are too many things that are creeping her out right now, but hey. She can go along. She places her ice pack to her side and tries not to relax into the cold, even though the pain is getting stronger with every breath. It's practically shooting through her brain, keeping her muddled thoughts from forming a coherent plan.

Which begs the question...

"So what's you gameplan?" she asks, not bothering to look up at him. "You gonna hold me hostage for another thirteen billion ransom from the Bellas?"

"You're supposed to be in a hospital, you do realize that, right?"

"So I've heard."

He takes a seat beside her on the bed. "What the hell are you doing here?" He says it as a half-laugh, the side of his mouth involuntarily twitching up into a smile, because it is both the most logical as well as the silliest question in the world.

"I was planning to chop off someone's testicles, but I got a little sidelined," she deadpans, because it's true.

"Oh, I think you've got enough balls on your own, so you're set in that area. No need to go choppi-"

He is distracted by the sight of the ice pack sweating red when she removes it from her side to open the pill bottle. There is the unmistakable shimmer of wet fabric at the side of her dress, as he tentatively reaches out a hand to see for himself, which she twitches slightly at.

"You're bleeding."

"No shit, Sherlock."

"Do you mind if I...?" He points to her side, and she parts her hair to show the zip, not giving a damn.

They are both immune to the usual biological impulses that accompany such situations. The truth is that it is the nature of their job to be unaffected. Whatever gets the job done is what happens, and it doesn't matter if it's seeing a naked body or severely damaged flesh.

As for Beca's ribs, it's more of the latter.

He is able to part her dress halfway along her side, and he is greeted by a bluish-blackish-greenish mix of colors, splashed red all over, and a soaked bandage. She probably pulled on a muscle and worsened the gash during their little spar. Jesse's expressions are almost as colorful as the sight. Beca could not give less of a shit right now, because the mixture of fatigue and narcotics doesn't want her to care. She knows he won't kill her, that's all that matters.

He doesn't waste time. He immediately gets up and leaves the room, rolling up his sleaves, comes back with a kit, sits beside her and finds the needle and thread, and then gingerly tries to remove Chloe's soaked-up bandage, or what's left of it.

She watches him like a stone animal, or rather, a _stoned_ one. The drug is kicking in, and it's doing wonders for her pain, but it's also messing with her automatic defense system. Find her any other day, and she would have him dangling outside the window by shoelaces within four minutes for making off with her data drive. Instead, all she can think of right now is how she's going to have to get Chloe's dress extra dry-cleaned.

"What are you doing?" she finally manages to say. It occurs to her that she's suddenly feeling so very drowsy.

He doesn't answer, because he's stitching her up. That's who he is: focused and determined. Once he sets his mind to something, nothing can distract him.

He also doesn't answer because he doesn't really know how to answer that. He thinks he's helping her because it's the honorable thing to do, because he feels maybe a tad bit guilty for having caused this, and, well, it's the right thing to do, he tells himself. She's tiny, for crying out loud. Leaving her like this feels too much like child negligence. He is a well-bred individual, and he'll be damned if he doesn't act like one.

Then again, maybe it's because he finds her insanely beautiful.

_Wait, no. Change subject._

"Whatever happened to your... girlfriend? The one with the red hair, blue eyes. Bella number two. Shouldn't she, you know, have your back? No pun intended," he says, not looking up from his stitching.

"_I'm_ Bella number two, and she's not with me."

"I can see that. No gingers around here."

"No, weirdo, she's not _with_ me."

"Define 'with'."

She scoffs. "We're not sleeping together, if that's what you wanna hear."

"Really..." Jesse muses, still not looking up from his work.

_Ugh. Men_. "Only every other Wednesday. You planning to join us?"

She says it as she winces, but he tries to hide a smile.

"Again," she adds, "why are you doing this?"

"Because you need help."

"You're a Treble."

"That is a correct observation."

"Explain to me how it all adds up."

Jesse sighs. "Believe it or not, I don't think it's great to go stealing from other operatives. It's ridiculous and kinda pathetic, like, because we can't do it on our own, we'll use you."

"Then give me back my flash drive, asshole."

This makes him laugh. Here he is, stitching her up and giving her surgery-grade narcotics, and she's calling him an asshole.

"If it were still with me, I'm sure you wouldn't hesitate taking it over my dead body."

"That is a correct observation," she says, her breathing uncharacteristically slower. "But that still tells me nothing."

"I believe in a lot of things, among them is integrity," he says, before he bites off the last bit of thread. "Which means, I can't let you die behind enemy lines. Not when I can do something about it."

He leans back, examining his handiwork. It looks much better now. He zips her up. She's looking at him, and he looks right back. It's not a social cue type of eye contact; it's protocol. Check his pupils, check his expressions, see if he's lying.

"How very gentlemanly of you," she says, in a tone that tells him she doesn't really care. He stands up in one bound and turns to look at her.

"Alright, so you can rest here, if you want. I'll be in the other room. Or, you could sneak out in the middle of the night. Not like anyone can stop you. The bay is (he looks around)... that way, I think. If you can manage to swim, feel free to jump. Take the pills with you, just don't, you know, cross a border with them. Trust me, I tried. Not pretty."

Beca's logic and training is telling her, _screaming at her,_ to try to get to the bottom of what the fuck is going on, and why this Treble seems to be determined to let her do what she has been planning all along, and why the hell is he even giving her pain relievers and stitching her up in an executive suite of the Ritz. If there's something she's learned in this business all these years, it's that nothing is ever as it seems. Nothing.

"I don't know what you're doing, but don't think that this is going to make up for anything," she says (and it comes out a bit slurred but she doesn't realize it).

"I'm sure it doesn't."

Her impulse, however, is telling her to trust him. If she falls asleep right now, she will wake up, as she always does, at the sound of a pin drop. She can handle herself, now that she's got her pills. So she looks up at him with hooded eyes, her smokey make-up smudged almost as much as her resolve, and she decides not to even try to understand a word he's saying.

She's fighting it, she really is, but the sleep comes to her like the sneaky bastard it is, and it takes her. She can still feel the throbbing of her ribs, but only slightly, when he gently holds her shoulders to lean her back on the bed (her wound-side up), because she will clearly sleep sitting up if no one does.

He goes outside to the living room, where he sleeps on the couch, the high of the drugs kicking in as well. He would've fallen asleep faster if he knew, if he could answer, the questions of _what the hell am I doing_, and _why the hell do I have a Bella sleeping on my bed right now._

* * *

The Bellatorum is a an elite organization of operatives who are trained in the skillful mastery of a wide range of fields, in order to be able to carry out covert operations. They are similar to other intelligence organizations, save for one fact: they owe no allegiance to any government. This is where the term "freelancers" come in.

There are very few Bellas in the world, as the group is composed of several, close-knit, highly-trained females who specialize in different fields. C-Rose is their weapons and ammunitions analyst. Stacie specializes in seduction techniques. Lilly is the digital programs analyst. The top three of the Bellas, dubbed by many as The Alphabet for the uncanny progression of their names, are Aubrey, Beca, and Chloe.

Aubrey is a master at absolutely everything, and she plans and strategizes every step of every operation.

Chloe may seem docile, but she is also quite capable. Especially when it comes to highly specific aliases and other undercover work.

Beca specializes in being a major pain in the ass.

* * *

"Where the hell is she?!" Aubrey storms into Chloe's house at two in the morning when a half-naked Tom opens the door for her.

"Um, I don't really-"

But Aubrey is already on her way upstairs, where she finds Chloe fast asleep as she pulls on the covers. Chloe jolts upright, also half-naked but with a pencil in hand, ready to attack her assailant... boss.

"Aubrey?"

"Tell me what the hell is going on right now, because Beca isn't back, and I am this close," she makes a teeny-tiny gesture with her two fingers, pretending to squish a miniature person, "to pulling the plug on her."

"I-"

Chloe is, in fact, really bad at lying. Like, Blue-Fairy bad. So she opens her mouth to speak, but Aubrey gets the hint.

"She. Didn't."

Aubrey grasps her heart, suddenly hyperventilating. Chloe jumps up to try to keep Aubrey from ruining their sheets.

"Aubrey, calm down, it's fine. Beca's just... doing what she does-"

Aubrey suddenly turns to look at Chloe, the blood in her face drained.

"They're coming for her, Chloe."

* * *

A pin drops.

She's certain a pin dropped, or her eyes would not have flown open. Her mind is on red alert, even as she vaguely registers the drugs wearing off. But she doesn't make any sudden movements. Instead, she uses her senses to try to gauge what's happening.

That's a boot, falling softly on the carpet, a rustling of fabric, and a very light click... the cocking of a gun.

They are not alone.

Whoever they are, they're in the other room, she's sure. She gets up and pads towards the closets. She barely has enough time to get inside when one of the men enters the bedroom. Through the slits, she makes her observations and calculates them, lightning fast: Almonzo's men. _What_.

"Get up!"

She can hear Jesse getting hit by the back of a gun in the other room. He reacts with a cry, evidently faking a shock at the strange men who are now in his room, waking him up. The men are speaking in Spanish.

"Where is 'Alaina'? Where is the woman?"

_Shit_. That was her alias in Belarus. How did they even...

Naturally, at this highly critical situation, Jesse starts spewing out words in... Bulgarian.

"Koĭ si ti! Kakvo pravish tuk! Molya, ne byakh az! Sbŭrkali ste mŭzh!"

(Who are you? What are you doing here? Please, it wasn't me! You have the wrong man!)

She can hear him faking fear, his words trembling, and his accent dead on. Nothing like good old foreign languages to throw off the enemy.

He's practically crying now. _Damn son_. He should be in broadway, or something.

She assumes they're tying his wrists, and then hears them ushering him into the bedroom, him still crying like a baby. She watches them carefully through the slits of the closet, calculating all the factors for a next step...

_Ugh. _This is bad mojo, she knows. This is an impossible situation, and it isn't part of her usual thought process to try to gauge the severity of possible consequences if she sticks her neck out for someone. It is simply not how this world works; you do not risk your safety for someone unless the pros outweigh the cons.

They hit his knee with a loud thump, and he's kneeling.

_Damnit. Damnit, damnit. _This is not supposed to happen. How the hell is she supposed to react to this? Yes, he will stand a chance if she decides to come out right now, but Beca knows the risks. And surely, this guy, her Bulgarian-speaking charmer, had known the risks when he took it upon himself to fix her. (She can say that, right? Did he actually _fix _her?... _Wait, why did he fix her?_) There is no reason for her to blow her cover. None at all...

"For the last time," one of them says in English, cocking the gun at Jesse, who freaks out and cries some more. "Where is the woman named 'Alaina'?"

_He's not going to get himself out of this._

She lets out a little squeal, which alerts the men. They open the closet doors to find a tear-soaked little woman, crying her eyes out, shrieking at the sight of them. They drag her out by the hair, and Jesse reacts accordingly, thrashing out and acting all husbandly.

"Molya vi! Nie ne znaem nishto! Molya, ne ni ubiyat! Imakhme nishto obshto s nego!" She screams in Bulgarian as she is thrown in front of Jesse, at the corner of the room. They're both in this now, whether they like it or not.

It was a gamble, she knows, especially because any one of them might know what 'Alaina' actually looks like. She catches a glint of surprise in Jesse's eyes when they callously dump her front.

The henchmen might as well be running around like headless chickens, because they apparently were not briefed on Frantic Bulgarian Couple 101. None of them know the face of their target. Beca takes a mental note of their incompetencies. This criminal organization is a disgrace.

Beca is shaking, shivering, a total mess, as far as the men are concerned. They don't see how her eyes flit to each and every one of them behind the tears, and they certainly don't realize how she's scanning the room for any and all possible weapons to be utilized. She curls herself in the corner, her face a pained facade that showcases the very best emotional training that they are so known for. Her breathing is panicked, her hands unstable, as she acts her way through their predicament with all the proper results.

They're still trying to figure out their next course of action, when Jesse suddenly buts in.

"(She's going to kill me, please, hear me out.)" The men are puzzled with his earnest entreatments. It seems like he really is trying to communicate something. Beca cries a little more through the tears, because otherwise, she might slip and let on an incredulous face at what he's trying to pull here.

"Alaina, (she's going to kill me, I just know it. She already tried once tonight.)" They hear him say the name 'Alaina', and they all gather round. Jesse makes a display of how he seems to be trying to tell them something in a foreign language, and they all listen. Of course, that's not what he's saying at all in Bulgarian.

_What the hell?!_ Beca is seconds away from accidentally breaking character... among other things she might break.

As Jesse gets more and more animated in his entreatments, it turns into a game of charades, with him spewing out gibberish, indiscernible to everyone but Beca.

"(I swear, I practically saved her life last night. Even let her sleep on my bed and stain it. But I just know that the moment she's back in health, she'll cut off my limbs and feed them to her goldfish. I think I might pee myself. Looks like I have no choice but to make her fall in love with me.)"

Beca breaks character for a second to look at him and mentally communicate just how unbefuckinglievable she thinks he is.

However, it all serves to come together. Somehow, he has managed to maintain the men's attention, giving Beca enough time to understand what he's trying to pull, and what she has to do.

"(It's in the drawer.)" Jesse says in Bulgarian. Finally, the information she's been waiting for.

* * *

It all happened in a flash, so fast and fluid. Everything was arms and limbs and gunfire, and a few spatters of blood here and there for the truly unfortunate. For the rest of their lives, Almonzo's men (at least, what's left of them) will be telling the story of how a frantic, tear-soaked Bulgarian couple had been able to take down five fully armed henchmen with nothing but a hair-clip/knife and a dangerous knowledge of the disadvantages of a circle formation.

* * *

Down the balcony they go, three AM on a cold January morning. As much as Beca would like to think of other things, it's funny how she feels a smug satisfaction with the fact that this is her second curtain-drop in less than 36 hours. Aubrey would freak.

They hit the lovely sound of solid ground, and are finally able to breathe out, partially relieved. They're still a little out of breath, but all in a day's work.

"I put their ETA at six minutes," Jesse says. Six minutes is like a holiday in their time. They would be well out of the sights of any further backup by then.

"I guess this is goodbye," he adds.

She gives him her signature smirk, a wicked little thing that's meant to put anyone off. It's a split-second peak into her personality, and there are so many layers to that, to her, and he's barely grazing the surface. It's a threat and a promise, a tell and a conscious gesture. A footprint image she leaves in his mind, establishing that this moment, standing in the middle of the Marina del Rey, is when she enters his life. This serves as his warning."Don't get your hopes up," she says, _Because there will be a next time when I take you down for stealing from me._

Jesse doesn't hide his smile. "I look forward to it."

As strange as it may be, those unexpected words from him makes her realize that she's looking forward to it, too.

"Take care of yourself... weirdo" he adds, giving her a pet name because he still has no idea what her name is. He thinks about asking her (he _dreamt _about asking her), but names are personal. So he leaves it blank, as though leaving it up to fate to decide.

"Always do," she says. She wonders (half-hopes) if he would ask her what her name is.

But he doesn't.

They part ways, each assuming that they would never see the other for the rest of their lives. Unfortunately, that would not be the case, as a week later, they're at it again.


	5. Casablanca

MONDAY, JUSTIN'S BAR (LOS ANGELES): 1326

"I have no idea who those people are."

_"Oh, come on, Beca. You've seen Mean Girls, you probably just don't remember. Tina Fey? Lindsey Lohan, that girl from Parent Trap?"_

"Yeah, okay, referencing a movie will not help me recall another movie."

_"Ugh. How can we play Mean Girls movie line-drops if you haven't even seen it?"_

"I don't know, Stacie. This was your idea."

_"Boo, you whore."_

Beca rolls her eyes, getting highly engrossed by the bottom of her glass. Out of the all the shitty assignments to get stuck with, she had to get this one.

It's a week after the incident at the Marina, and Beca should be in the hospital, nursing a sour set of ribs back to health. But as always, Beca has responded the way she usually does to institutionalized confinement: fuck that. After three days of practically drinking morphine straight from the tube (not the hospital crap; the good stuff from the black market), she's up and about, ready to take on her next assignment, and any dead Treble bodies she can acquire along the way.

Which is why, when there had been whispers of an underground inter-organization cross deal going down in a local pub, Beca had volunteered like a fly drawn to the sweet smell of rotting corpses.

Well, at least, soon-to-be corpses.

...

"Remind me why I even listen to you," Beca downs another huge gulp.

_"I swear, my sources were reliable. There will be Trebles here... I think."_

But of course, as goes the inevitable law of the universe: If Stacie says it, then it probably isn't true. Which brings her here, sitting dejectedly in the corner of a bar, early Monday afternoon, drinking mediocre scotch and finding endless fascination in swirling her ice around and looking like a typical bar-loner with a sad tale to match.

"You owe me one," Beca whispers subtly into her comms.

...

"It's still early," Stacie says from their little black Pedro's Pest Control van, parked right across the street. She's flipping through Martha Stewart and filing her nails, not really paying attention to the surveillance screens showing the exterior of the bar. "Besides, you could probably use a man like a Treble, so it's totally worth the wait."

...

"I don't even know how to react to that," Beca answers after downing another gulp. She dedicates this to her pure, unadulterated boredom.

She hears someone enter, and from her periphery, she marks him as the possible target. No other person in the bar at this time fits the profile.

"Hang on, I've got something."

Beca uncrosses her legs and crosses them again; a subtle little move in order to get him into her periphery. Not bad, she thinks. Tall, dark, handsome. Kind of exotic. Good upbringing, judging from the way he carries himself as he takes a seat on one of the booths. Definitely target material. Could be working for the CIA, the Mossad, any number of agencies, from the looks of it.

_"Do you have a visual?"_

"Yeah," Beca replies, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "My ten o'clock, east window. Mid-twenties, dark, tall, handsome-"

_"Dibs."_

"-he's wearing glasses, thick frames. He's reading a magazine right now. The Economist. (_"Ooh, sophisticated."_) Body language says he's not waiting for anyone, though."

_"Hey, if he doesn't end up being target, and if you, like, don't end up killing him, can I have him?"_

"He's not that hot."

_"Oh, look at you and your fancy standards."_

Beca scoffs at that. But Stacie just rolls her eyes at the implied reaction through their comms. Ah, Beca. Ever the hardball little shit.

* * *

(THREE MINUTES AGO)

"I'm serious dude, why you gotta go ruin my rep?"

"You call that a rep?... wait, what kind of rep are we talking about?"

Exactly around fifteen feet from the Bella's van, two members of the Triplus converse in Maria's Flower Delivery Service.

"Are we talking about your rep with the ladies, or we talking, like, real rep sheet," Donald adds, as he finishes putting on his glasses.

"Both," Jesse answers from the mess of screens and keyboards, sipping his supposedly after-lunch coffee, except he hasn't had lunch yet.

"I did no such thing." Donald fixes his office suit and tie.

"Really? Can you please explain to me how the hell my search history got passed around like a memo?"

"Oh, that one," Donald replies, smiling at the thought and grabbing Jesse's coffee for a sip. "Dude, you were searching for a Bella. How can you _not_ expect that to get around? Even porn doesn't get flagged as much as searching for a _fucking Bella_, man."

Jesse doesn't reply, just takes back his coffee and admits defeat in his silence. He couldn't help it, so he had gone down to the archives and had poured precious hours into almost memorizing every single member of their rival organization, The Bellatorum. Not a single file on her. Not even a hint. No mention, no pictures, no nothing. She's like a ghost. And he had been quite afraid that she had been one, that night when he was stitching her up, her bloodied side bruised and damaged from the pull of the seat-belt over their little stunt (over-deducing lets him come up with details like that).

He's an optimist. In the one-in-a-billion chance that he might see her again, he likes to think about the one over the billion.

"We good?" Donald says, readjusting his glasses.

Jesse works his little geek magic, and suddenly, he sees the side of his face on the screen, as captured by the tiny camera in Donald's eyewear. "And... we are good."

"This better be worth a shot," Donald says, grabbing a copy of The Economist and opening the doors out.

They had gotten word that a major deal was about go go down at Justin's this afternoon, so they had headed out to confirm the rumors. An hour later, the rumors remain in the status of unconfirmed.

* * *

_"Any news?"_

"McDonald's stocks are up," Donald replies to his comms, from behind the open spread of his magazine. So far, none of the bar goers seem to fit the profile for a target.

_"Sure there isn't anyone?"_

"Let's do another headcount. There's Mr. Veteran, my three o'clock, except he's too old and too grumpy. Mrs. Field's is obviously having an affair with Mr. not-so-Clean on my six. There's the crazy cat lady ("Gotta love those.") who's waiting for her online date. The bartender is definitely a no..."

_"Which leaves-"_

"Which leaves Thumbelina over at the bar, drowning her sorrows."

_"Mhmm."_

...

Jesse absently puts the empty cup of coffee to his mouth for the fourth time, and is surprised, for the fourth time, of the empty coffee cup, that has been empty for at least forty minutes. His mind hasn't been present almost the whole time that Donald has been staking out at Justin's, because Donald's description of the "wee little woman" over at the bar has his mind going back to his little Bella that night at the Marina.

_"Jesse? Are you spacing out on me again?" _Donald sounds exasperated from the other end.

...

"Dude, keep on getting attached like that, you'll fall in love with a lampshade. And to think you didn't even have sex." Donald huffs, as he removes his glasses and give his eyes a rub. They really need to have a pep talk about this. "God forbid, it's like Martina all over again."

_"What? Sorry... Hey maybe you could get closer to the small woman, you know. Double check."_

"Wait. She's turning around. I think she's leaving."

_"Yeah? Could you put your glasses on, please? You can save me the commentary by putting your glasses on. That's what they're for."_

* * *

_ "It's bigger than a dick, but slightly smaller than a pencil."_

"That doesn't even make sense."

_"Trust me, honey. It's possible."_

Beca would usually _not_ be interested in Stacie's perverted ("sexy") version of twenty questions, but today is a special day, Beca feels, and thus, it deserves some extra weird conversational moments with her extra weird friend. Desperate times call for desperate measures. And she's desperately bored.

"Okay," Beca says, after downing what seems to be like her eightieth glass of Johnny Walker (she had changed from scotch around half an hour ago, just to fucking twist things up). "I need to go to the ladies' room."

_"I know, right? I love this game."_

"Oh my god, that's not-I drank a lot of whiskey."

_"Right. Do what you gotta do."_

She gives herself a brief moment to give that comment the cringe it deserves, before she gathers her purse and stands up, going over to the ladies' room, passing by the mystery man, and she could almost swear, she's seen him somewhere.

* * *

_Oh, fuck_. Donald nearly chokes on his own tongue the moment the woman had turned around.

...

_Holy shit._ Jesse does choke on his own tongue, and even trips on his own feet. Sitting down. Like Beca's face on the screen had just slapped him senseless.

...

Donald can hear Jesse with a line of expletives in his ears, before the strong, high pitch of feedback hits him, and he is guessing that Jesse must've tripped over the equipment in the van.

...

"Motherfuckingshit-"

_-crapcowfuckerdamnshit. _Jesse literally tips over and hits his head somewhere and _Motherfucker is that who he thinks she is?!_

_"Please to god, that isn't your car crash girl,"_ Jesse hears from his comms, Donald's forced calm not quite getting through. A brief pause on the other end of the line, because the following needs no words.

_"Wait, Jesse, no. No no no no nooo. Think this through, man. Don't do something-"_

...

"-stupid." But too late, as Donald recognizes the sound of Jesse's comms getting shucked out of his ears. He looks outside to the window, where Maria's Flower Delivery Service van looks like it just spewed out a human being, from the way Jesse almost literally stumbles out the back door, heading straight for the bar.

_Aw, shit._

Donald stands up to go. Well, somebody's gotta take care of the van.

* * *

Beca goes back to the bar to take a seat before doing a two-second inventory. The woman still doesn't have her online date, the couple having an affair have probably gone off to the nearest secluded spot, and no other sign of any other candidate, especially because...

Where's the mystery man?

She risks turning her head around to look, even craning her neck to see if she missed a spot. But, just like that, he's gone. So she takes her glass and gets ready for a boring afternoon...

* * *

Jesse enters the place, and he doesn't remember when was the last time he could feel his heart throbbing like this. It's the rush of excitement over the one in a billion chance in the universe. She's here. She's real. And he will not leave until he at least gets her name, or number, or fucking twitter. The gods be damned.

He slides beside her, but she can't be bothered to even turn to him.

"What's it gonna be?" The bartender asks him.

"I'll just have what the lady's having," he says, looking over to her to see if she would look up at him.

And she does.

"Hey there, weirdo," he greets, trying his very best to be as effortlessly charming as he can be.

"Um, hi," she smiles up at him, clearly charmed that he would talk to her...

_Wait a minute._

"So you're all better now?"

"Um, yeah. I will be, I think. Soon as I get super drunk enough," she replies, looking despondently down at her glass.

_Is he missing something..._

She gives a light, tinkling chuckle, and he knows she's playing at...

"Sorry," she says, "do I know you?"

_What? Bullshit._

Jesse is a lot of things, but he's not stupid. And he sure as hell isn't prone to self-doubt. She sounds a bit drunk (and rightly so, if the spill marks and empty glasses are any indication) and he just might believe her. If his tradecraft were less than what it is. Does she think she can just shove him off like that after he had been borderline obsessing over her for the past week?

"Really? You gonna go with that?"

"Go with what?"

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a hold of a Bella that doesn't exist?" He is looking at her, gaping with divine pissedness. "Do you even-I'll have you know, I relearned my Bulgarian just to try to see if your accent would give anything away."

"You know Bulgarian?"

Jesse just shakes his head, brows furrowed. "You're really gonna keep this up? How long has it been, eight days? Nine? You could at least give me the credit of remembering you, especially when I haven't been able to get you off my mind since." He punctuates his rant with gulp of scotch, his jaw tensing at the midday alcohol because _Seriously?_

How she manages to look partially flattered and partially creeped out is a mystery to him.

"Look, I think you're kinda sweet," she says, her words slurring a bit, "but I don't like talking to strangers," and his eyes are drawn to the flirty finger she uses to poke his chest with, "unless they're in bed with me."

It's an offer. He just knows. Take her up on this and the Bella he had known a week ago would be lost, and she would forever be the drunk one-night stand to him. But damn, it's tempting. So he does what he does best. Two can play at this game.

"Thought you'd never ask," he says, pulling off a sly grin, and he could swear there was a glimpse of surprise in her eyes. But then, his hand reaches ever so subtly towards her side, the broken side, as though to usher her off her chair...

And just like that, her hand grabs his wrist lightning fast, her nails digging into his skin, her expressions empty of any remnants of the character she had been playing not two seconds ago, and her eyes flashing a deadly warning: _Okay, you got me. So don't you fucking dare._

Now, that's more like the Bella he knows.

He can't help the wry smile that lights his mouth, because he just beat her at her own game.

"So you're not anymore interested in getting me into bed?" He's going to milk it for what it is.

"Was worth a shot," she deadpans, and he much prefers this cool of her voice greeting his ears than her warm, drunken slurs. She turns her attention back to the most important object in the bar, in her opinion, and downs the last gulp.

"Whoa, slow down. Shouldn't you be in the hospital or something?"

* * *

_"The man's got a point, you know."_

Beca rolls her eyes at the dual headache she has to deal with right now. Stacie in one ear, this... _fucking creep_ in the other, and the alcohol buzz in both. She had built up a tolerance during her three-year op in Russia, but she's no Captain America. Also, it's two-thirty in the fucking afternoon.

"A little too early for happy hour, isn't it?"

She doesn't turn to him; her body language tells him he has a long way to go in terms of getting her trust (don't they all), but he takes her in. She is stunningly beautiful, though not in an in-your-face kind of way. Her beauty grows the more she's looked at, and he just knows that the people around her find themselves staring the more they look, for no particular reason. It's strange, the way she gives off a warning aura. Like, for every stare, a puppy dies. She's beautiful in the way that death might be beautiful for a philosopher, or the way blunt-force trauma might be beautiful for a mortician.

"I look better naked," she deadpans, totally ruining his moment.

"I don't doubt that. Not that I would know. I did only get to see your side."

_"Oh my god, is that him?! From the Ritz?!"_ Beca cringes at Stacie's suddenly chipper comment in her ears.

"You're a weirdo," she says. Mostly to him. Partially to her.

"I am, and so are you."

"Excuse you." She doesn't hide the matching scoff that comes with the comment.

"Between the two of us, I'm not the tipsy one in this op."

_"True,"_ Stacie says.

This time, she glares at him, pouring double effort, because _Goddamnit, Stacie._

"Wow. If you're trying to seduce me, congratulations for straying very far from your mission."

"Not trying to seduce you."

"Really? Cause it sure as hell doesn't sound like you're selling me carpets."

This earns her an amiable smile from him, his goofy features getting all riled up by her severe disinterest. She's barely turned to look at him once, and damn son. To hell with his escapades with Swiss banks and the French police. Now this, _this _is a challenge.

"So what's your deal?" he asks, taking a sip from the fresh glass of scotch that the bartender just left. "You one of those spies who's all dark and mysterious, then she takes off her clothes and that amazingly scary hair-knife, and you realize that, you know, she was beautiful the whole time-"

Beca hears Stacie laughing at that description.

"Shut up," she says.

Jesse's face suddenly turns serious. "Sorry, I didn't-"

"Damnit, no not you... I mean, yeah, shut up-"

His expression goes from worried to overexcited puppy in about two seconds.

"You on comms right now? Do you have a Bella in your ear?"

She gives one of those looks of pointed annoyance, and it's all the confirmation he needs.

"Hey there, Bella. Say hi to the rest of the gang for me."

_"Is he talking to me?" _Stacie's voice is brimming with fucking giggles.

"Oh my god, could you both just-" Beca is just not digging the overabundance of annoying from the two of them, and the fact that her glass is fucking empty (when did that happen) does not help.

"I am so not drunk enough for this shit," she says, setting the glass down with considerable force.

"The usual?" The bartender asks, his accent...

His accent. When (the fuck) did that happen? Beca really needs to get her shit together right now. True enough, he turns around, and there is Luke, in all his British glory, pouring her a shot of Beluga vodka.

* * *

"That's pretty impressive," Beca says, but Jesse is decidedly not impressed. Despite being caught off guard by the sudden materializing of an MI6 field agent before his eyes.

"So, you two done with the catching up?" Luke asks, wiping his hands on a dishtowel below counter. "Because we've got work to do."

"I don't know if you've noticed, but I already have a day job," Beca says.

Jesse doesn't care that she has suddenly turned her attention to Luke. He's totally cool with her witty remarks getting redirected into Luke's general direction. Jesse certainly isn't feeling peeved in the least by Luke's sudden noncommittal appearance out of the thin fucking air.

"We're not done with the catching up, actually, so if you could just, go materialize somewhere else, that'd be great."

"Both of you are here for the same thing, so why don't we head out back," Luke says, leaving the protection of behind the bar to lead the way (and pretending, with the cool of a thousand icebergs, that he did not hear Jesse).

"I'm here because of a rumor," Beca says.

"I know that," Luke answers. "You're here because you're waiting for a target and a deal. Great news. You're the targets. This is the deal."

* * *

**AN: Disclaimer: **Some of the lines in this chapter were transplanted from the movie.

A note on the characterizations:

Beca and Jesse are adults, in a very hardened world. As such, I cannot guarantee their safety (or lives), or anything else in this fic. That is all. Hope ya'll like it. Also, yes. Alias is the bon diggity.

_(ps. Yeah, Beca's drinking. Wonder why...)_


	6. I Knew You Were Trouble

FRIDAY, HOTEL DO MAR (BAHAMAS): 1042

Like a statue poised ever so seductively on one of the sofas in the lobby, Beca's face shows the most impassive of cools. She is reclining on one of the huge cushions, looking like her every breath costs a million bucks because she's playing the role of daddy's impatient little heiress. The bitch face comes with the territory. Her glare could probably burn a hole through the other wall... and through anything else past that.

Underneath, though, her expression hides one of her famous, deadly concentrations. She's on the careful lookout, mindful of the smallest details happening all around her, waiting for the perfect moment.

And all because he had called her tradecraft "sloppy".

_Sloppy, my ass._

Beca bites the side of her lip. Alright then.

Jesse walks in, looking extra dashing in an all-white holiday suit, his blazer hanging lazily over a printed Star Wars t-shirt, huge sunglasses covering half of his face. He looks around for his companion, looking for a lovely glimpse of the yellow sundress she had been wearing, when a hand turns his face...

And Beca's mouth quite aggressively covers his.

* * *

(42 HOURS AGO)

WEDNESDAY, THE BELLATORUM HQ (LOS ANGELES): 1536

"Beca, we need you go active."

"...That better be a metaphor for my sex life."

It has been eight weeks. Eight weeks since Beca's little car accident and her run-in with her "Treble in shining armor", as the other Bellas had taken to teasing her about. She has healed well during the eight weeks, and has been inactive in missions since, especially because it's her way of protesting the inter-agency cooperation bullshit with the Triplus.

_The bastards._

Take note that they had been the ones who had stolen the drive from her in the first place, but of course, Aubrey had decided to work with them on the whim of the MI6. Generous as the offer may be, Beca's going to pass. She'd rather have her vocal chords ripped out by wolves than play sidekick to Batman and Robin while they try to get back what was _fucking hers_ in the first place.

The MI6 had asked the help of The Bellatorum and Triplus for a high-stakes retrieval of the exact same drive that Beca had swiped in Belarus, and the drive that Jesse had swiped from her that same night. Apparently, there was some serious horseshit going on, as the Triplus had unwittingly handed over a very dangerous weapon to a very bad guy, their client at the time. Who was going to be in the Bahamas in seven weeks. And Luke had been tasked to handle the op that was to occur in seven weeks.

And she had been clear, during those seven weeks that had passed, that she wants nothing to do with the mission. She doesn't know how much clearer she could get. ("_I'm not your fucking Batgirl._") They could choose any other Bella, but Beca is not going to let them have the best one. (She's not even going to _pretend_ to be modest about that.)

Then this morning, she gets a call to the conference room. Where Aubrey and Chloe had been waiting to drop the news on her: Congratufuckinglations, you're going on an all-expense paid trip to the Bahamas! Though, you'll have to work under an MI6 agent and the jackass who stole your drive.

"No," Beca says. More like _No way in fucking hell._

The two of them seem not to take this first reply to heart. Instead, Aubrey presses a button on the desk, and immediately, the glass-paned walls of the conference room go one shade darker, while Chloe locks the door. Protocol for relaying black operations.

Suddenly, all is clear.

* * *

(7 HOURS AGO)

TRIPLUS JET: 0313

Two days later, she's up in the air, getting shipped to the Bahamas in first class, Jesse sitting across her, the two of them going through dozens of pages of dossiers and documents.

It's a little dance they do, ignoring the fact of basically _everything_ that had happened between them. From the very beginning, from her Treble-induced car accident, Beca had already marked him in her mind. She's not sure what for; could be for payback, for using, for any number of things, really. (It could also be that she just finds him impressive, though she's probably never going to be under enough duress to ever admit that.)

Every once in a while, Beca would feel his eyes on her, stealing glances over his paperwork.

Jesse knows her name now. _Beca_. The tiny woman he had rescued that night is named "Beca".

He knows she notices his glances (he's not exactly being discreet here), but the question of _why she pretends not to _is what encourages him all the more. She sips her martini just fine, cross-legged and absolutely gorgeous, indifferent to his charms...

When she ungracefully chokes on her alcohol, blowing a gargantuan hole through her poise.

"Careful," he chuckles, "those olives can be a real pain."

Beca looks closer at the fine print on the document that contains their cover story. She squints her eyes, desperate to god that she needs glasses right now.

There, in plain English, are the words: Married couple.

Married.

_Married._

_MARRIED._

_This has got to be a fucking joke._

"What's this?"

"That would be a page. Of paper. I think it's made from trees."

"It says here we're married."

"Does it?" He plays it coy, but he knows what file she's talking about. Having been brought late into the game, he finds it amusing that this is her reaction to their cover. Her gestures and her expressions and her everything are like neon signs pointing to a big _Are You Shitting Me Right Now._

"Are you serious?"

"Don't look at me. I didn't draft that."

He studies her. She is not pleased.

"Am I supposed to be offended that you look horrified at the thought of being married to me? Could be worse, you know," he says.

_It really can't._

She barely glances up at him as she hurriedly skims the rest of the document, trying to see if any other contract clauses were waiting to flabbergast her face. Surely, whoever came up with this shit had to have hidden the punchline in a different page. Did they make her a drug dealer? A mentally unstable person? A fucking astronaut? No. They put her in a _romantic relationship_, in the honeymoon stages, no less, as though fake emotional attachment and physical contact weren't difficult enough. The one branch of espionage she _loathes_, and the one mission she _didn't want_. Together, they work to produce an unsavory blend of pissedness from Beca.

"This can't be serious," she says, shuffling her papers all over, as though a real, more sensible cover story were misplaced between words somewhere.

"I know. Can you believe them? What on earth were they thinking, pairing two good-looking agents together, thinking that there would be any chance in the world that we could possibly be together? I mean, clearly, you are way too gorgeous for me," he says, his tone positively _oozing _with sarcasm (save for the last bit).

This does not get anything out of her except a brief glance, as if he had just asked her what her favorite color was. Or favorite movie.

"Damn," he says, "I knew you hated me, I just didn't realize how much. Is it my cologne?"

"It's not you, it's just-I have a rule. I don't do covers like this." (_Also, you don't wear cologne. But nice try._)

"Oh."

He takes a good look at her, scrambling over her documents and trying to piece together their cover, when he notices something else. It's not anger. Years of reading people has gotten him exceptionally good at figuring out the cocktail of emotions running through a person at any given time, and right now, Beca isn't feeling angry as much as she is feeling upset, her emotions directed at something else. Not a person. Probably something from her past.

"If it makes you feel better, I'm told I'm an excellent kisser," he says.

"I'll try to remember that when I'm practicing on my pillow," she huffs, rubbing circles on her temples as though that would magically induce a change of plan.

"Huh."

"What?"

"Nothing. I just never expected you to have limitations. You seem like someone who can pull off any cover."

"You're baiting me."

"Maybe."

A semi-awkward silence ensues from the semi-acknowledgement.

"I can pull covers just fine. But I'm not into unnecessary drama."

He is starting to get the sense that there's a story behind this. He can tell. But if he wanted to pry it out of her, he's not going to.

"You could just be my girlfriend, if you want. If that makes it easier for you."

"How about sister? Or second cousin twice-removed. Some kind of distant relative who has no reason to talk to you whatsoever."

"Sorry. As appealing as it is to be related to my genetics, I don't think it can work that way."

She reads the rest of the document. Apparently, if the plan were to work, she'll have to be romantically involved with him somehow.

The target's name is Owen Conor (Single "n". Don't forget that.). He's a massive playboy and a total jerk. Also, he runs several human trafficking rings, and is looking to get into the cybermarket next. That's what he needs the drive for.

The play is simple. Jesse, whom Conor knows from dealing with the Triplus, will be invited to Conor's party, bringing Beca with him. He will introduce Beca to Conor, whose dick won't be able to resist her, because he knows she's taken. In short, Beca is to seduce the target by being unavailable to him. Thus, hopefully gaining access to his room, where he hopefully keeps the drive. Standard seduction op. No fuss, a clean in and exit. After all, heiresses aren't known for coming up with such elaborate tactics.

Her cover is as "Natalie Lipstein", an oil heiress from Texas. Vapid, irritable, and head-over-heels (yes, the document did spell it out for her) in love with Jesse. She is not supposed to know the nature of his work. She is not supposed to know much of anything, actually. She is, however, expected to look like a multi-million dollar lovestruck southern socialite. Basically, she is supposed to play the anti-Beca.

_I better get a raise for this._

...

A few more minutes on flight, and Beca and Jesse have comfortably reclined in their respective ergonomic seats, stealing what few hours of sleep they can before shit is propelled to hit the fan in a few hours. However, it is a truth universally acknowledged that James ("Jesse" to everyone, except his con victims and legal documents) Swanson is one sly son of a bitch. So, whilst pretending that he's sleeping like a baby, a fedora sitting low on his head, he watches her sleep.

It would be creepy in any other situation, but it's quite fascinating how much one can learn by observing someone's mannerisms when unconscious.

Beca sleeps with her arms crossed over her chest, legs crossed over each other. She sleeps lightly, because a slight shift on his part elicits a change of breath in her. Her senses are still on overdrive, even in slumber. Not a lot of operatives can manage that, because not a lot of operatives feel the need to.

He feels a strange sympathy towards her. Whatever it is she went through, it must not have been easy.

...

"Morning, sleeping beauty."

Beca's eyes fly open at exactly two hundred minutes after she falls asleep. They are close to landing, and Beca internally chides herself for being caught off guard and for waking up after him. Well, she did make sure to fall asleep after him, so that's fine...

"What's the ETA?" she asks.

"Around 35 minutes."

Her hair is slightly mussed from lying back, her eyes not quite on their regular alertness level. He, on the other hand, is already skimming through the important documents a final time.

"Did you have a nice nap?" he asks. She gives him a painfully sarcastic smile.

"I would have. But it's not NASA-grade memory foam, so I was kinda disappointed."

"Right. But you did sleep through, like," he looks at his watch, "half the flight."

"So did you."

He looks up at her from his papers, his smirk practically punctuated with a ™ symbol. She cocks an eyebrow in response, squinting her eyes. After a few moments (because she clearly doesn't get it), he just smiles to himself.

"You're tradecraft is getting sloppy," he comments, before sipping coffee.

Beca's eyes widen with disbelief at his sheer _audacity_.

"Did you just make a comment about my _tradecraft_?"

He lifts up his eyes again, his smirk now replaced with his equally-patented puppy eyes and innocence of emotion.

"I was watching you sleep. Did anyone ever tell you, you _don't_ look like you're resting, like, at all. I was scared to breathe because you might stab me with your heel if I made the slightest sound. It was pretty intense."

"You were watching me?"

"I know, I know, it sounds creepy, but it's only because, between you and the rest of the plane, you're definitely the more interesting view."

"When was this?"

"Sometime between now and when you were asleep."

Beca cannot believe herself. He was watching her? How could she _not_ have known?

"If we're gonna do this, you really should be in your top game. I'd hate to have to save you a second time," he says.

"_Oh my god_." Hey eyes are so huge because _Who does this fucker think he is?_ She has no reaction to that except to open her mouth and close it again and purse her lips really tight, lest she... _You know what? Whatever._ She tries not to make it a big deal. He's just an ass.

But _Oh my god_.

"You thought you _saved_ me? That night at the Marina?" she suddenly bursts out. He nods. A gesture she finds absolutely apalling.

"Okay, first, _what?!_ Kneeling down with your hands tied, literally a gun to your head, sounding like you were about to piss yourself, which, by the way, you said so yourself. You couldn't have gotten out of that alive. Second, I saved _your_ ass that night, nerd. Don't you forget it."

He just laughs, crinkling his eyes at her, shaking his head (looking at her softly, because _she's so cute when she's angry_).

"I actually had things under complete control when you suddenly decided to come out of nowhere and distract me with your award-winning performance. Which was great, by the way. I'm a huge fan. But I couldn't help but ask myself, 'Why would she risk it? She was home free in the closet.' But don't worry about it," he dismisses, waving off her now challenging glare and going back to his papers. "I'm sure you have your reasons."

Now, Beca is a witty-retort kind of person. But for the first time since she can remember, she does not have a comeback for that. He didn't say it out of condescension, or even in a mocking tone, after all. If anything, it's all part of their little dance. She's memorized his eyes and the language that goes between them unspoken is one of the reasons why she hasn't yet mutilated him in some way.

She's good at what she does, and she can tell, he's not so bad, either. They have each other's respect. So she let's that one slide.

She'll just have to showcase her tradecraft one way or another.

* * *

Which brings her here and now, at Hotel Do Mar, a luxurious and exclusive hotel on one of the many tiny islands in the Bahamas. She waits for him in the lobby while he goes off and makes arrangements. She recognizes the seemingly random bodyguards placed all over the place, which can only mean one thing: their target is up and about. It doesn't take long.

Owen Conor.

From a distance away, he is walking towards the lobby, having just come from a swim. A perfect opportunity, as she also sees Jesse coming in from just outside.

Before Jesse even knows what hits him, her mouth is all over his.

* * *

_Wait, WHAT._

Jesse could swear Bumper or any of the other guys must have sent word to one of his many, many past lovers just to mess with him on this op, and his shades are wobbling on his nose and her hands are all over his hair and her tongue...

_Good lord._

Then again, _What. What is happening. _Beca is kissing him like today is armageddon and he's the only man left alive.

(Not that he minds...)

"Jesse? Is that you, mate?"

Jesse pulls back just in time to see Owen Conor, their target, approaching him, a huge grin spread over his place.

"Owen! Hey," Jesse says, removing his sunglasses and getting his shit together. He's a little bit dazed and confused after having just been assaulted by Beca's stunning oral demonstration, but then, he realizes what she's doing.

_Oh, she's good._

"Fancy seeing you here, mate." Owen looks to the two of them, and Beca returns his smile with a giggly grin of her own.

"Yeah, would you look at that! Of all the hotels in the Bahamas. This is Natalie, my girlfriend. Sweetheart, this is Owen. We did business together."

_I know. He hired you to steal from me_, Beca can't help but think.

"Hi! How d'you do!" Beca says, her strong southern accent adding to the bubble of joy that is her alias.

"Pleasure meeting you," he answers, with a very warm smile. Beca notes that there is no evil emanating from his being. Which is weird. She can usually smell evil from a mile away. She wrinkles her nose, smiling and being cute and so _not_ herself. Jesse is looking at her and tries to keep from showing his admiration for her complete change of character. Someone give this woman an Oscar.

"So, how do you two know each other, sweetie?" Beca, in her southern accent, ever so subtly asks.

"Oh, you know-"

This is her, putting him on the spot. _The sneaky little devil._

"It's this thing in Belarus. Wouldn't want to bore you with the details, but I would like to say that your man delivers," Owen answers for him, thinking that Jesse's girlfriend has no inkling as to the nature of their work.

"He does, doesn't he?" She says, beaming proud at Jesse. He knows that fake smile of hers is silently screaming bloody murder because of the events at that car crash.

"So, Owen. You here on business? Pleasure?" Jesse asks.

"Well, a bit of both, actually. Thanks to our deal in Belarus. Which, I have yet to properly thank you for."

"How long you here for?"

"Three days. I'm heading to Prague first thing Monday... Hey, I'm having a small party in the lounge tonight, you two should come! I'll have you on the guest list."

"That would be great!" Natalie (Beca) perks up at the idea. Great start for the op.

"Really? Oh, I don't know-"

"Nonsense. The two of you have to be there, and I especially want you," he says to Jesse, "to meet the love of my life, who... is incidentally here."

Owen smiles and cranes his neck at the sight of a young lady approaching from behind Jesse and Beca.

Jesse's pleasing cordiality is an anvil that drops from his face the moment he sees her.

"Jesse, Natalie, I would like you both to meet Martina."

* * *

**...**

**AN: **I'm not big on OCs, so these two will probably be the only ones you will encounter in this fic. Also, how can I _not _make them into a spy couple, really. This should come as no surprise. :))

FYI, the FC for Martina is Leah Michelle. Yes. I went there. (And if you have been reading my favorite stories, you will know from which other fic I got the name "Martina". So yeah. It's not coincidence.)

Finally, thank you. I am encouraged by your reviews. This is so much fun to write, and thank you for reading it. I super appreciate it. :)


	7. Lovesick Mistake

There have been many studies done about emotional compartmentalization and it's effect on the general species of humans on this planet. There are some who are in a field of work wherein this mental mode, this _lifestyle_, is an aggressive need that has to be met at all costs. Espionage is one such field, and spies are some such people.

There are, as there are always, exceptions to every rule, however. And while it is a rare case to find any one thing to be an exception to more than one rule (managing to be an exception to even one is already a feat, after all), Jesse Swanson is an exception to around five.

Compartmentalization is one of them, because no matter how much he is one of the top operatives that has ever existed, he still can't get his shit together when it comes to the topic of _emotions_.

.:.

* * *

FRIDAY, HOTEL DO MAR (BAHAMAS): 1123

"If there is anything that I need to know in order to run a smooth operation, tell me right now."

Beca and Jesse enter their room after the encounter, and it's high time they had a little talk about who Martina is, what she is doing here, if she will be a nuisance in this operation, if he has banged her, and other such details. But as soon as the door is shut, Jesse is already on his encrypted phone, calling Luke.

_"Please tell me you're in,"_ Luke greets him.

"We are. That's not the problem."

_"What is?"_

Jesse sits on the edge of the bed, rubbing the bridge of his nose, while Beca gingerly takes a seat on one of the couches, kicking off her pumps. He hunches over, elbows on his knees, phone in ears, while she graces the contours of the seat, her small body taking up as much space as the seat would let her spread herself over. It's a domestic picture of polar opposites.

"We may have a slight setback. Conor isn't single, and he's dating my ex."

_"Jesus."_

Jesse rubs his neck at the sudden implications. They will have to play this by ear. Not that he's particularly bothered by that, but again, their job had taken weeks of preparation, and it needs to go without a hitch. Martina is a hitch. No, slash that...

She's a fucking blockade.

_"I sincerely hope you find a way to fix this,"_ Luke finishes.

"Me too," Jesse whispers, shutting the phone. Beca is stretched over the sofa, looking closely at him as he haves a mental breakdown. She really shouldn't enjoy seeing him so stressed out, but that's what he gets for being such a slut. Too many lose ends left all over the world, one can never be sure when one might encounter a bitch by the name of karma.

"You're enjoying this," he says, eyes closed. It comes out coarse and grating because it's embarrassing, really.

"No. Maybe... Okay, _yes_.

He lifts his eyes to see her languidly sprawled over one of the couches, her expression all at once mocking and sympathetic (_how is that even possible_), like she has a divine right to this amusement. It's a look, he can tell, that she reserves for those who she believes deserve it, and it hits him that she might actually consider him an actual acquaintance (dare he believe it), rather than a meaningless object that she has to work with (which, let's be honest, is probably how she sees everyone).

He is looking at her, and she at him. There are no aliases between them now, and it is strangely pleasant.

...

MEANWHILE...

A gorgeously full woman enters the hotel as though she owns the ground beneath everyone's feet. Her aura speaks for itself and when she approaches the desk in the lobby, the personnel know to greet her like the queen that she is.

"I'm lookin' for my BFF," she huffs, looking absolutely exasperated that she even has to _say_ anything.

The person at the desk does not fumble because they are trained professionals in the art of knowing when to bullshit, and this is not the time.

"Absolutely, ma'am. I shall need the person's na—"

"Lipstein. I think it was... 'Natalie'... last we met. She keeps changing," the woman says, looking disgustingly _bored_ that she doesn't know her best friend's name.

"Certainly... Ms. Lipstein is staying in room 814, shall I give her a ring?"

"Yea. Do that."

He takes a few moments to check the computer.

"And we shall need to know your name, for the guestbook."

"Yea—no, don't put me down in that."

"How might we refer to you as?"

"Tell her it's Patricia."

"With pleasure."

...

While the spy game is great fun and all (_fun_ is, after all, a relative term), nothing quite so universally peeves operatives more than making a tiny, detailed mistake that would cause the operation to go haywire. Jesse's mistake was not tiny. It was fucking colossal, and he doesn't want to talk about it.

"I don't want to talk about it."

_"I don't give a shit if you don't wanna talk about it, but if I need to know something—"_

"There's nothing to know."

_"Bullshit."_

"You don't believe me?"

_"I don't believe anyone."_

"That's a really sad way to live, Beca. You should take up a hobby or something."

_"That's funny. No, really. *Believe* me when I say I am so laughing right now."_

Jesse smirks at that, the smirk of a man who has successfully changed the subject of discussion. Down at the infinity pool, he and Beca run their pre-op survey amongst the many possible guests of Conor's later. You know someone's got the dough when he has a pre-party, a party, and an after-party. It's like a multi-course French dinner. They are at the pre-party, so to speak. Since the pool was blocked off exclusively for the host's use, the guests have taken to relaxing there, right before the main event.

Just a few hours ago, Jesse had discovered that the one woman he had spent the actual _effort_ to forget has just sashayed her way into, somehow, his life. Furthermore, as the ever-loving girlfriend of his target. He's really out of it right now, but Beca's stern tone in his ear is his tangent to reality.

_"You enjoying the view there?"_

"Not particularly. Can't say any of these swimsuit models have anything on you."

_"Oh, wow. Does that line usually work?"_

"Oh, most definitely."

_"That is so sad. I actually feel sorry for you."_

He sits by the poolside, the warm afternoon sun setting a fuzzy amber glow on everything, and while he and Beca only have each other in comms, and as much as he would like to enjoy the little things like how the sunset is playing sparkly magic on the pool, or how Beca can quickly put up a retort to his usually stunning one-liners, there is still an operation ongoing. He casually leans back, tempted to play with the tiny umbrella that comes with his little coconut, but he keeps his eyes peeled for people all around.

And then he hears the one voice he _really_ doesn't wanna hear right now.

"Jesse!"

Martina's voice echoes well through Jesse's ears, and he vaguely wonders if she's doing this on purpose, being cute and friendly and doing that thing with her hair that she used to do when they were in Prague so many lifetimes ago, her skin touching his when she had been lying with her back to him in a quaint little hotel room...

_Damnit_. And he was having _such_ a nice pre-op survey.

"Hey." He doesn't do more than utter the greeting, doesn't so much as shift. It's his way of protesting her existence (and looking cool in front of his ex). She, of course, sits next to him, her bare thighs purposefully brushing against his calf and _Damn her. So much._

"So, I totally didn't know you would be here!"

"Hotel's a huge place, Marty."

"I know, right?" And she puts on this laugh that tugs on his heartstrings. Ugh.

_"If that is who I think she is, I need to know that you are in your fucking game, Jesse,"_ he hears through his comms. Beca said his name for the first time, and this jolts him back into reality.

"So, how are you? How are are things? I haven't seen you in forever! So, okay, tell me (she places a hand on his knee that sparks his hormones and makes him want to throw his coconut at her), how did I not even know about the beautiful heiress that you're dating?"

"Marty, can we, just—"

He sits up, effectively taking his burning knee out of her seductive touch. That one move, her hand lightly resting on his knee, tells him how temporary, how deathly _fragile_ her relationship is with Conor. (It takes him back to the time when they were together, and he briefly wonders if they had been the same.)

"Listen, it's been, what, five years?" he says.

"Five and four months."

"There you go, five and four months." He sighs heavily because this isn't fair. He had left her, and he still feels in the wrong about that. But what's a guy to do? It's not like she didn't find another man after just three weeks. She can't just come in and pretend to be okay with him. There is a shittonne to discuss, and loads to get out of the way before either of them should be able to get back to _okay_, but she makes it look so easy, it kills him.

"I really don't want to talk about it, Marty, so I think we should just leave it."

Her face scrunches up in a way that tells him she doesn't understand.

"Leave what? What are you talking about?"

Jesse realizes what an idiot he actually sounds like... _shit_. He is _so_ not in his game right now. And at the high-risk op they're running, they can't afford this.

So Beca comes to his rescue.

"_Listen closely, and follow exactly after me..._" she says, as Jesse settles into his recliner, looking Martina straight in the eyes.

"_Marty, I think that we shouldn't talk about what we had_," Jesse follows after Beca's calm tone in his ear, "_It was great when it lasted, and you know that. I respect you enough to save you the usual bullshit. It wasn't you, it wasn't me. It was both of us. The wrong place, and the wrong time. And I think we should drop it, because it's not going to help anyone if you remind me that I left you, or that it didn't matter to you that I did_..."

Jesse swallows the inconvenient lump that has formed in his throat. Beca had just outlined his relationship with his ex... _What_.

"Oh. Okay," Martina says faintly. She's a bit taken aback at his sudden declaration. Or, at least, she appears to be. She rubs her eyebrow, and Jesse knows it's a conscious gesture to show him she's unnerved, and to unnerve him in return.

"_Jesse_..." The tone of Beca's voice is unapologetically _exasperated_.

But not even her voice is able to stop the flood of memories that overtakes him...

...

They had met in Prague, Martina being the beautiful, young, up-and-coming small town girl, working to make it big. She had the talent and the prowess to make it in the art industry, he could tell. She had slipped him her number after encountering his usually devilishly charming self, and the rest followed the natural progression of a whirlwind romance, except for the fact that he wasn't supposed to fall in love. It's not a rule, but most people who make it into his line of work have enough common sense, _the decency_, to avoid love (or any other form of social connection, really) like the plague. But to his immense disadvantage, Jesse is not like most people.

So he had bought a ring, perfect and gorgeous, that is, until he had had to pawn it for exit cash after having been made in Prague. He had to leave her, that's for sure. But to this very day, he considers it having been the biggest mistake of his life.

He's a creature of emotions, and one of these days, he knows it will end him.

...

"Of course," Martina replies, with apparent difficulty.

_Keep it together, man._

Jesse doesn't know what he wants. He had done what he did to spare them both, but it had hurt when he found out she was heartbroken for all of three weeks. Right now, he doesn't know what _she_ wants. Which leaves them at an impasse.

"Sweetheart!"

He is pulled back into reality as Beca calls him, coming over to them in her two-piece bikini, sun hat and too-big-to-be-cheap sunglasses perched on her head, her long, open summer gown flowing. Her smile, _that smile_, nudges him back to his senses, away from the clutches of painful nostalgia. Of course, that smile also tells him that she is so fucking annoyed that she has to go over there herself and snap him back to reality.

She sits right beside him, on the arm rest, so that she could possessively wrap an arm around "her" man, his head leveling with her (_impossibly, impeccably sexy_) stomach, and he needs to look straight ahead to keep his brain chemicals balanced.

(It's painfully ironic, really. Two beautiful women, both pretending to be interested in him but neither one actually giving a damn. Ah, the complexities of his life.)

"Oh, sorry, didn't realize you have company. Marty, right? Where's Conor?" Beca's thick southern accent is spot on as she innocently looks around, wondering where their host could be. Martina, in effect, is flushed. (Beca is a good enough operative to tell the difference between _flushed_ and _raging pissed_... this is the latter.)

"Okay, so I'm gonna go back to him. I'll see you guys later!" she says, smiling her way out of the embarrassing situation. Beca's face is crinkling with the effort of grinning as Martina walks away.

And Beca whispers her next words so that Jesse hears them in his comms. _"The fuck are you doing?"_

It sounds _so_ like her, with the deathly calm of her tone.

It's a valid question, after all. He doesn't know what he's doing. So he swallows hard, trying to find that side of himself that can maintain a long-enough cool to complete a mission.

When he doesn't answer, she looks at him, her expression slight with concern. (He knows it's for the operation, and not him. But he wishes it were for him, anyway.)

"We'll have a talk about this," she says, taking his coconut and sipping, the straw dangling idly at the corner of her mouth while she makes pleasant eye-contact with various strangers looking to get a load of her gorgeous body. She's just _that good _at what she does, he realizes, that she can sound so _terrifying_ while smiling.

"Looking forward to it." He's really _not_.

He feels the vibration in the close proximity of her body as she holds down a sharp scoff at that.

"I think you should take a break. I'll mingle from here," she whispers, quite strangely in character, as she suddenly leans down and kisses him lightly, arm tightening around his shoulder while the other guests walk on by. It's all for show, he knows that. She's a professional. But for the split-second when her lips touch his, he wonders what the hell this woman is doing to him.

.:.

* * *

_"Is that necessary?"_

_Beca should know better than to ask that. Of course it's necessary. Everything is necessary in this game, because it wouldn't exist if it wasn't necessary. They are trained to be effective, and efficient, and necessary is a prerequisite for this life. Hell, if breathing were't necessary, they wouldn't be doing it._

_The Alphabet enter into a private discussion of a black operation. This is also known as a dead op, which means that it is only to exist as an understanding between the people involved. No trace, no communication, absolutely no information beyond that which is about to be relayed within the four walls of this conference room, right now._

_"You want me in this op so I can double cross them? Both of them?" Beca looks to Chloe, directing the question to the mildest of them, the closest they have to a kind heart and a good soul. Even now, Chloe looks tortured. Do they really want to go there?_

_"We have no choice." There is legitimate guilt in her voice._

_"This is war, Beca. And it is my job to make sure that my soldiers are prepped and armed at go time. I can't do that if the Trebles keep getting the upper hand," Aubrey says._

_There is undeniable truth behind her words, but that doesn't mean Beca has to like it. What they are asking her to do crosses a lot of unspoken lines, and while she knows that she's the only one they can trust to deliver, double-crossing both Triplus and the MI6 doesn't sit well with her._

_"Fine. I'll do it. But I'll do it my way."_

_It takes Aubrey a few seconds to think, because with Beca, there is no solid, identifiable 'way'. Her way is a storm that may or may not come to pass, between a mild drizzle or a hurricane, with or without a rainbow in the end, and it may rain water or cows. Her 'way'? There is no such thing._

_"Alright."_

_Because with Beca, there are only results._

* * *

**AN: **So, been working on this for, like ages, just haven't had the guts to publish this chapter. I know, I know, it's a total yikes chapter for me, but I just need to get this up, so I can get it out of the way.

to _GodSlayer_: Well, sometimes I have the feeling I can make them into that couple, but then I think, mmm, better not. :))

For _Camille_, who has done nothing but tell me to update this. :)) Thanks to you, I got to starting the chapter.

Again, their characterizations will be explained further on. Thank you for reading, you beautiful people. Been trying to upload this for a while now...

And _yes_, the name "Marty" comes straight from my favorite PP story, "Pitching It Perfectly". I regret nothing.


	8. Duplicity

There is no greater lie in the world of espionage, as the lie of constants. There is no such thing. There is only probability, and everything else is left for the fates to decide.

There is no greater reminder of the lack of constants than when operatives experience the sudden, rare feeling of ground where their feet should be dangling, air where there should be water in their lungs, senses when their bodies should be dull, emotions towards those they should have none for. It is these things that are such revelations in a world where one must always live with a last breath. Pleasant surprises are always welcomed.

Of course, not all surprises are pleasant. Especially not chloroform.

* * *

FRIDAY, HOTEL DO MAR (BAHAMAS): 2046

Jesse and Beca arrive at the outer courts in the balcony gardens, a luxurious, canopied cross between a lounge and a hall, decked with only the finest that blood money can offer. It's game time, as the faux couple arrive at their target's party with a mission: it's simple, effective, and there is a 50/50 chance that it's actually going to work. Which is, for operatives of their caliber, very bad.

Very, very bad.

Their whole plan had been riding on two factors: that Conor would be single, and that he would fall for Beca's womanly wiles. One of those factors is definitely _not_ the case, while the other one, Beca isn't so sure of either.

While Jesse's game had been put off by the little plot development of his ex-almost-fiancé dating his target who is to be the one-night-stand of his current fake girlfriend, it's a good thing that he can get his shit together pretty fast. Ish.

It's a splendid setting in the outer courts of the hotel, the warm tones of the candlelight balancing the cool breeze of the night air, the guests being serenaded by a live band ("Is that Michael Buble?" "It would seem so." "When did he get into a crime family?" "His voice is a crime family.") Jesse has Beca's arm wrapped around his, as they both work their way through the maze of who's who in the crime underworld.

She is wearing her low-cut turquoise Versace, and she is glad that she doesn't have to hide any major injuries this time. Because her dresses leave little to hide. Jesse tries not to think about this detail as he makes small talk with some of the guests.

"Таким образом, ваш бизнес находится в музыке? (So, you are into music?)" A stout Russian aristocrat converses with Jesse.

"Да, это я. Это всегда было моей страстью. (Yes, it's always been a passion of mine)," he answers, his voice effused with just _so much_ charm, it's almost going stain his suit. Beca, on the other hand, tries to look happily bored, because her cover prevents her from taking part in any of the foreign language conversations, which comprise around 90% percent of the conversations that are going on in the party. She looks around from behind her champaign glass, her focus never settling down on any one of Jesse's conversational partners, because she is a great operative, and the devil is in the details.

But _oh god_, is she bored.

"Ах, так это ваш новый проект? (So, this is your new project?)" The Russian asks Jesse, vaguely gesturing to Beca and laughing with his comrades at the implied joke, as they assume that she's simply one of those throw-away pretty faces that men take to impress other men, obviously judging by her inability to mingle with the other guests. They also assume that she doesn't know Russian.

(Which she does. Beca simply smiles. The fact that she didn't castrate this fucker here and now is a testament to her self-control. Aubrey would be so proud.)

Jesse, however, does not appreciate it.

"Нет, это моя прекрасная подруга, Натали," he starts, his usual charm subtly turning into a different tone altogether, "Я хотел бы познакомить вас с ней, но вы не заслуживаете удовольствия от ее компании." He ends with a less-than-amiable glare leveled at the Russian, who's face turns into a somber expression.

It takes even more self-control for Beca to keep her eyebrows from shooting up at Jesse's display, as he leads them away.

"Свиней," Jesse whispers, even though they have barely left earshot.

While the Russian turns a little purple and almost causes a scene at Jesse's very rude afterthought, Beca is finding it more and more difficult to keep in character, with her partner's strange ways.

...

"You do realize that you just pissed off Russia's premier arms smuggler," she says, when they are out in the fringes of the court, just the two of them in earshot now.

"Yeah, well," he says from behind his glass, "I've angered worst."

It occurs to Beca, the way guilt creeps up in the most inconvenient of times, that this is the man she was tasked to double-cross. This guy, who had patched her up, sewn her battered ribcage together without expecting anything from her, who had given her medication to keep her from passing out, and who had just defended the honor of her cover. It's times like these that she really hates the kind of world she lives in. She relaxes her elbows on the rails, looking towards the elite group of world-class crime lords having a wonderful evening tonight even after doing what they do for a living, and she wonders if she's any different from them.

Looking straight ahead, she tries to ignore how Jesse's eyes are trying not to linger too long on her face. The key word being _trying. _

Jesse doesn't want to make a deal of it, but _she is beautiful_. If there's one thing he's learned in this business all these years, it's that everything can change in the blink of an eye. So, he'll steal glances while he can, while they are still working together. He is not about to deny himself the pleasure of the simplest things, especially in their line of work.

"You gonna tell me about Marty?" Beca startles him, changing the unspoken topic of _You're looking at me. It's weird._

Ah, Marty. Jesse realizes that they are probably going to have the worst conversation that they will ever have, so he moves closer, his back to the balcony.

"She's my ex almost-fiancé."

She takes a moment to process the information.

"And how is that relevant?"

He passes a hand over his face. Even though he should know better than to make gestures that subtly give away his disposition, now is not the moment to care about whether or not Beca knows about his ever-increasing stress levels when it comes to this subject.

"She's... what you would call a wildcard. If Conor's dating her, there's a possibility you'll have a hard time trying to seduce him."

"Define 'possibility'."

"Give me a gauge."

"Ballpark numerical percentage."

"I'd say ninety-seven. Give or take."

She scoffs at that number, thoroughly amused.

"Three percent? Didn't think you had that little faith in me," she adds, mockingly.

"That's not true, you know that. But I know her." He turns around and faces the balcony, eyes fixed on an invisible dot several miles out into the coast. The shift in his body language tells Beca that this is not a topic that should be taken lightly. "She's... something."

Beca does not miss the lingering affection in his voice. This is bad.

"She an operative?"

He shakes his head. He is still not looking at her, and it's a rare moment for Beca to observe his features carefully. His profile is all she can see, but she knows that all-too-familiar crease in his brow, telling her that there is a part of him that is emotionally invested in this, and it is a delicate matter. She knows that feeling all too well.

"Do you want me to take it from here?"

That question, coming from her, is like a nuclear bomb dropped in the hypothetical living room of his brain. However frazzled he might be, though, he is not _so_ out of his game that he would show the tiniest hint of the surprise that he feels towards the implications of her question. So his features do not react in the slightest.

"Nah, I can do this."

"And that would fine..." she says dryly, "if I believed you."

...

Conor enters in the simplest, most understated manner. Hardly any of the guests turned to look at the dashing young host as he assumes his title a bit late into the night. Beca, however, was the first to notice.

She brushes past him hurriedly, in a fast walk to try to keep from anyone noticing the steady stream of tears making quick work of her mascara. (The fifteen steps it took for her cross the room was enough to manufacture some drama on her part.)

"Natalie," Conor calls after her. She turns around, a little jittery and such a sobbing mess, her eyes red and her looking a bit shy that the host would call her out, hiccuping between strangled little noises.

"What's going on?" The concern in his voice is so palpable, she can feel it. She shakes her head a bit, but manages to speak between sobs and dabbing at her eyes (she swiped a napkin from one of the guests).

"I..._hic_... he... _hic_..."

"Go on," he coaxes. To which, she pulls out all the stops, and suddenly starts _bawling_.

"_Jesse broke up with me!_" And her face starts scrunching up and she's squeaking out hideously _ungraceful_ sobs that shames even the most dramatified episodes of Grey's Anatomy. Throwing all social graces out the window, her performance is so perfectly _horrendous_, it is to her immense pride that almost all the guests are now turning towards her.

The effect is flawless.

Conor, partly out of sympathy and partly out of embarrassment, awkwardly tries to console her in a strange half-hug, which is perfect. The most difficult thing about her cover is that it leaves no room to appeal to the apparent intellect of her target, but no matter. This little mid-party cry-fest will have to do. And it's going well, as Conor relaxes into the hug, and it turns from _awkward_ to _hideously pleasant_ in no time.

They break away just in time when one of the staff comes up to him and whispers something in his ear. Conor's expression turns apologetically towards her.

"I am, so sorry, Natalie, but there's been a slight... problem that I have to address," he says, making a move to excuse himself. But she won't let him get away that easily.

"What is it?" Her sobs have stopped, and she looks at him eagerly, forcing him to oblige her.

"It's... nothing, really. Apparently, the entertainment is... missing."

"Oh?"

"One of the... singers, was it? I'm terribly sorry..." he says, about to excuse himself. But then he looks at her, evidently contemplating.

Beca knows she's close. She can tell that he is possibly thinking about carving out some time for her, out of sheer sympathy. (Definitely _not_ in the file, she decides. Bad guys aren't supposed to be this nice.) Her play is going to work; with enough opportunity, she just might convince him to take her to his quarters.

And then she comes along.

"Darling!"

Beca would like nothing more than to flip a major _Fuck You_ to Martina, coming out of sheer nowhere, strutting her stuff and kissing Conor with all the sass of her leopard-print purse and her matching shoes. She notices Beca's tear-stained face and immediately looks worried.

"Oh my god, what happened?"

"Oh, it's nothing," she tries to brush it off, because otherwise...

Conor whispers something in Martina's ears, telling her of the unfortunate news. Martina's face looks ghastly horrified and terribly sorry and etc...

But Beca is an operative. She doesn't miss the subtle change of tone when Martina gives her the I'm-so-sorry-to-hear-that speech. To find out that her ex-boyfriend has just broken up with his current-girlfriend a few hours after they saw each other must be interesting news. _Uh oh. _Beca manages a tired, forced-looking smile, given her circumstances, but she really cannot deal with this shit right now.

Especially because, thinking as the intuitive operative that she is, Beca has noticed the lack of focus that Martina has brought within a three-feet radius of her vicinity, as evidenced by Conor's sudden diverted attention. _Goddamn, this bitch_. Jesse was right; this Marty is something, to walk in here and simply whisk Beca's gameplan away by managing to distract both of the important men in this operation.

Looks like she'll just have to wing it.

"Will you be okay? I'd hate to leave you like this," Martina says, laying a "comforting" (more like condescending) hand on Beca's shoulder. Conor looks worried, too, but his is genuine.

"Oh, I'll be fine, I'm... so sorry, I didn't want to cause a scene," she says, dabbing at her tears, looking more embarrassed and shy and totally demure. "But hey, I thought there's something wrong with the singers?" She subtly changes the topic so as to seem like she's drawing attention away from herself.

"Yeah, but it's alright-"

"I can sing! If ya'll need me to," she says, offering a wan smile.

It's at this moment that she knows she's got this situation by the balls.

...

Not many things can shake Jesse Swanson.

Get him out of his game, perhaps. (Exhibit A: his ex's fateful arrival out of the deepest abyss of hell.) While it's near impossible to distract him, there are, even as he hates to humbly admit it, some things that can achieve the effect of putting him off his game, for a time.

But right now, he's not so much _shaken_ as he is _stirred_.

Apparently, aside from being such a badass and delivering a mean line of comebacks, some of Beca's hidden talents include discombobulating him by being completely unpredictable and unreadable. She had just told him to, basically, _sit this one out_. Which, in any other case, would be utter horseshit.

But something in the way her eyes had spoken to him made him trust that she knew what she was doing. And it is at this point of his musings that he hears the evidence.

The faint strokes on the piano is the first he hears, and it had vaguely registered. But it was the voice that made him sit up and move closer to the words.

_"I lit a fire with the love you left behind. And it burned wild, and crept up the mountain side..."_

Her southern accent is still there. She is still maintaining cover through all this. But at the same time, there is still something undeniably... _her_. He could hear _her_, through the echoes of her voice.

_"Followed your ashes into outer space..."_

He could just mark out the source of the lilting voice on the stage, but people have suddenly taken to listening, and he is at the very edge of the party.

_"I can't look out the window, I can't look at this place..."_

He sees Martina, an arm wrapped around Conor's, watching the stage... where Beca is performing.

_"I can't look at the stars, they make me wonder where you are..."_

There are certain, unspoken emotional lines that are drawn between fellow operatives working on a mission. But with every note from Beca, every reveal of her intriguing personality, Jesse finds that those lines are increasingly blurring.

_"Stars, up on heavens boulevard."_

She plays the piano while singing country, and deep in his logical little brain, he knows that this is to their purpose. This is for the drive, as nothing else matters. But that is the last thing in his mind.

_"And if I know you at all, I know you've gone too far..."_

Jesse knows conviction when he sees it. Out of all the people in the room, only he is able to recognize an aspect of Beca that is pouring through her words.

_"So I can't look at the stars."_

He is... captivated. Standing at a safe corner of the area, he doesn't hide the smile he has at his partner's outstanding performance. Beca is _something_, alright.

He is still smiling when a wad of strong-smelling fabric covers his face. Beca's voice is the last thing on his consciousness.

...

Plans have always been more like guidelines to Beca.

Tonight is no different. The ultimate goal of her play is to get to Conor's room. One way or another, she will get there, whether it be with the fake attempt to get into his pants, or otherwise. But since his pants seem to be off limits, she's taking a different route.

Conor is a sentimentalist. That is one thing that the dossiers did not contain; it's one of the reasons why Beca is the best at what she does. She can tell that there was no way that the man is half the crime lord that he was on paper. If anything, he seems more to be the type to cry at a rom-com. Not that she would know; movies aren't her thing.

So she had skewed the gameplan to appeal to his emotions, the stronger part of his personality.

Taking the opportunity to draw his attention, here she is, playing the piano, her voice bracing the room in an impeccable display of raw gravity. Well, hell. If this doesn't touch his heart, she'll have to pull out the big guns and spin a tale about her dead great-gramama and her fight against pelvic cancer. And she is not going through more than one emotional performance through the night, thank you. It's hard enough to sing emotionally without being reminded of her own past.

She ends to the gentle applaus of the audience, shyly taking a bow and looking all flustered and shit. Her eyes try to find the target, but he is nowhere in sight.

Coming down the stage, the flitting thought of what Jesse had to say about her performance is the first thing on her mind, as she takes a glass of champaign from one of the waiters...

Who happens to be, of all the fucking people in the world, none other than her MI6 buddy.

"Jesus christ," she says, barely a whisper.

This habit of his, appearing out of nowhere without invitation, is something they will have to talk about. She shakes her head and smiles because, really. She should know by now that he is not above suddenly popping out of her fucking purse.

"Should I even ask what creepy English fetish you have with waitering," she deadpans, nonchalantly taking a sip from her glass.

"Well, I'm a gentleman by profession," he says subtly, so as to avoid looking too conspicuous. Which is difficult, given that he has a nice face. Beca walks ahead toward the edge of the crowd, Luke following.

"What are you doing here?"

"There's been a change of plans," he says.

...

Shit just got real.

Jesse mentally takes note of how real shit got, between the time he was thinking about Beca and right now, being heavily duct-taped to a chair, barely coming to.

_Damnit_.

His hazy mind weakly notes that he is still in the hotel. In a room. _His_ room.

_Wait, what?_

For starters, _what in the fuck happened?_ And then the slight memories of chloroform and passing out and feeling dragged hits him. But it doesn't hit him as much as the surprise he gets from the woman, coming out from the other room, coming into focus, and calling him, if he got that correctly, a turd burger.

_What the shit._

* * *

**AN: **I am so sorry for this chapter...

The last thing I want to do is to drag this out, but the end of this scene is near. And then, I can get to the good stuff.

For _ohchan, _who helped me insightfully, getting me to write again. Thank you!

Also, Up in the Air. Yes, Anna Kendrick was amazing. Go search her crying scene in that movie, and you'll have an idea. :))

Also, I am _just so so sorry, _because I abhor dragging stuff out. I hate it. And it would seem that this fic is... might... maybe get a bit long. I don't know.

But the good stuff is coming soon. I think. At least, I hope it'll be good. I am so sorry, but thanks for still reading this shit. And sorry also for the erratic updates. Gotta earn some dough, man. :) Again, I am so grateful for ya'll reading this. I hope I don't disappoint.

MUSIC: Stars - Grace Potter

(ps. I am so sorry for my Russian, and I love Russia okay, just to be clear.)

Thoughts? Comments? Something I missed? Drop me a line in my message? :)

_Up next: A very important confrontation..._


	9. The Rules of Engagement

There are burns that come from existing in a shadow, hidden from the normal undertakings of the world.

There are two ways to react to the inevitable scorch. One is to burn up and burn out. The other is to develop a thicker skin. Beca has a foot in each road. Her scars are ones that come from her ashes. Her skin is thick from getting burned one too many times.

Most operatives would have lost their humanity by now, after what she has had to go through. It's easier to throw away the notion of good and bad, right and wrong. Not Beca.

If anything, she has found a way to hold on to herself, and not get lost in the chaos. She guards her humanity with every fiber of her being, keeping it under wraps, never showing it to anyone. Russia's nuclear launch codes are not as well and carefully guarded as Beca's emotions. It is to her credit that she is renowned for being _the_ most cold-hearted member of the Bellatorum.

And yet, she has her standards. She knows how far she can take it. She has her own definition of what is acceptable and what is not; she counts on this standard, gauges her actions on this standard. She knows what she can and cannot do, what she will and will not, and what she should and shouldn't.

As long as she is not emotionally compromised. That is her rule.

But of course, all rules are meant to be broken.

.:.

* * *

Beca follows Luke, as they leave the party behind. Her mind is processing all the possibilities, all the factors, every single operational detail. And she is not liking her projections. As wonderfully, _horribly_ accurate her intuition is, they are confirmed when Luke leads them through one of the unassuming "personnel only" doors, near the side of the hotel where there is an overabundance of nobody.

And who better to greet her on the other side of the door than Owen Conor himself.

"Beca, meet Darius Hoult, MI6 division H, class-5 operative."

"Deep cover," Beca says, familiar with the jargon.

Ah, so it is.

"I am," Conor/Hoult starts, turning towards her and offering a hand, his personality making way more sense. "It's a pleasure to finally meet the operative behind the cover. I must say, you were quite amazing."

Beca is shaking his hand, but her eyes are on Luke, trying to mind-power her communication and throwing on one of her famous eye-brow glares that only mean one thing: _What the Fuck._

"Just got the briefing after Jesse's call," Luke says, by way of apology.

"Oh my god, you guys work for the same agency, how is this even possible?" It isn't a question; It's a sarcastic remark. And by _this_, Beca means _This Gross Negligence, For Shame_. But the two operatives merely chuckle. Why, yes, of course a major operation protocol breach is funny. It's fucking hilarious.

"You'd be surprised at what bureaucracy can accomplish," Conor adds.

And because Beca is dressed half-decent tonight, she feels the grace not to spout the undignified (not to mention, _highly entertaining_) insults she would like to throw at them, as they discuss the major chunk of information that had been missing in her briefing documents.

Apparently, the real Conor, who had established a multi-billion-dollar underground smuggling and human trafficking ring, had been dead for almost five years, during which the MI6 had been running a highly sensitive, deep cover operation run by Hoult, who has been playing the formerly reclusive and presently deceased Conor all this time.

"It's a way for us to link to the underground," Hoult explains. And Beca gets it, she totally does. But this leaves her with one last question.

"So who's my target?"

And she so hopes that her gut would be wrong this time.

...

The woman that comes out from the other room is gorgeously dressed for the occasion, and the first thing that comes into Jesse's hazy, druggy mind, is _Oh no, I've been kidnapped and taken as a sex slave. Oh shit._

But then, he realizes that this prediction is totally off, as there is no way this woman could have possibly dragged him all the way up the stairs... wait, there are elevators in the hotel, right?...

_What. What the shit. What is going on?_

He knows he's brighter than this... he got an A in a college math class when he was eleven, for godssakes... He is a smart boy... Again, _WHAT?_

Jesse vaguely realizes, as a string of horribly random thoughts cross his mind, that he must be under the influence of some sort of... substance, clouding his ability to think clearly. He also likes juice... and the small woman... his operative partner... ah, Victoria's Secret...

"Hmmmfff," Jesse says through the duct tape around his mouth, his droopy eyes recognizing the faint edges of a figure, walking towards him and asking a question...

The operation. The drive. Beca.

His mind snaps almost immediately, just barely grasping the string of thought that the drug keeps him from following. He is here. Operation. Wait...

Who is this woman?

Jesse forces clarity into his mind, and he could just make out the word "flatbutt"...

...

_Not cool._

Beca storms out of the "personnel only" doors, the two Brits following.

She is upset. Don't they know better than to follow her when she's upset?

"Beca wait..."

She doesn't want to wait. She has had it with losing this drive, losing Conor, losing Jesse, all to this magnanimous bitch. She needs to find Jesse, get this over with.

"Beca—"

"What?" she threats, turning around to face them with a challenging glare.

"Where you going?" Luke finally says, because they really don't know. She had just stormed out with an eye-roll, every bit of her pissed, and the two of them look like confused boyfriends who had forgotten about her birthday.

"I need to find Jesse," she says, turning around and continuing on her merry walk of protest against this dastardly turn of events.

"Wait," Luke starts, hand on her arm to get her attention, "do you mean he's not with her?"

"Do I look like his babysitter?" She huffs. She is tired, but not physically. The ache in her bones have nothing to do with any physical demands that this operation has made. It comes from the increasing complexity of her situation, based on Jesse's situation, based on all the situations, that have to do with this op.

"Where is he?" Hoult asks.

It occurs to Beca that she hasn't really seen him, almost an hour now...

...

Beca should know better. No, hang on. _Jesse_ should know better. She had tried to call him, but it won't answer. Either he's not answering his phone, or he can't anymore... Beca doesn't dwell on those thoughts...

But if it turns out that he's just not answering his phone, she is _so_ going to kill him herself.

She, Luke, and Hoult (as Conor) scan the room and walk amongst the guests, trying to find Jesse. After fifteen minutes and three positive rounds, she knows he's not around. And at an hour and fifteen minutes out of your partner's line of sight in the middle of a high-risk operation, amidst this kind of crowd, Beca has worked the exponential increase in probability. In their world, carefully-measured odds are a way of gauging mortality rates. Jesse's, as of the moment, is 7-8, which means that there is a seven out of eight chances that he's dead by now.

_Shit_. Beca doesn't want to think about that. Maybe he just called it a night...

"I'll go to our room," she tells Luke non-too-subtly, while he is busy passing around hor d'oeuvres. And because Beca had just implied that she is getting jiggy with the waiter, she earns several condescending glares. But she's too stressed out to return them.

She knows the protocol when it comes to partner operations. If something happens to your fellow operative, that's on you. While Luke and Hoult need to maintain cover and stay in the party, mingle and keep in character, Beca is left with the responsibility to find the bastard who had suddenly decided to go AWOL on her.

(She tells herself that she is entitled to internally freak out a bit, because he is her partner. It's expected.)

...

Jesse is not a unicorn.

He is not, never was, and never will be a unicorn... But why does he feel so light and funny?

"You alright there, turd burger?"

_What's a turd burger_? Jesse takes a mental note to ask this question to St. Peter when they meet. Which may be soon.

"Oi, hotshot, you there?

Jesse does not so much nod, as moves his head in a slight downward motion.

"Mhmfff..."

"Alright, well. Since you're just about cheese fried..." She takes a chair and sits in front of him, crossing her legs, as she starts the interrogation.

"Here's my first question: do you know a certain Bella by the name of Beca? You know, flatbutt, small thing?" She gestures Beca's height.

_Beca_. Before Jesse can stop them, his eyes alight with a recognition that any operative would notice.

"Duly noted," she says. "Second question: is said flatbutt under duress right now?"

Jesse's brows furrow, and that's a negatory. She doesn't even need him to speak. She was trained well enough to get answers out of his automatic reactions in a heavily-drugged state. Actions speak louder than words after all. But now that she knows that her friend is not under duress, she kinda wants to hear this hotshot speak for himself.

*rip*

"OW!"

She rips the duct tape right off his mouth.

"Yea—Imma need you to tell me the exact nature of your relationship with her, and what the two of you're doing here, and who you are," she says.

Jesse would have given her his answer, had he been given the chance. The drugs are presently wearing off, and he would have then understood that he is tied to a chair in front of a woman who had been asking him a series of questions about his operational partner. He would also have taken note of how the woman carried herself, her lips, her eyes, her expression, and basically, her _everything_, screaming Trained Operative. He would have been able to come to the correct conclusion, had Beca not opened the door right then.

"Amy?!"

...

Emotional attachment doesn't come in a great big revelation.

It comes in small packets, in little compromises, and in tiny, seemingly irrelevant misgivings that accumulate over instances that mutate into importance. Beca knows this shit, she knows the drill. But that doesn't stop her from borderline _worrying_ about him.

Leaving Luke and Hoult to their respective covers, she heads on to her room, where she will have to look for clues as to Jesse's sudden disappearance. Maybe he left a note, an article, a token of his affection, fuck, anything really, that meant that his corpse had not just been dumped off the coast of Central America.

She opens the doors, and there he is. Duct-taped to the chair, looking groggy as hell.

She knows it shouldn't be, but the first emotion that floods her is relief. (She'll work on her personal detachment later.)

The second thought, however, escapes her lips far too fast.

"Amy?!"

The woman responds in kind. (Right after replacing the duct tape on Jesse's mouth.)

"Well, shit, S'bout time, woman!"

...

At which point, Jesse isn't sure what's happening anymore, as his interrogator seems to engulf Beca in what would be an otherwise socially unacceptable bear hug that has Beca's small frame all but drowning in cleavage, which the evenings' wear is shamelessly accentuating.

Beca is not amused.

(Okay, maybe she is, just a teency bit. Her best friend randomly appearing out of nowhere in the middle of their op had been a surprise, yes. But Beca is used to surprises, and having Amy as said surprise is a helluva lot better than having any of the rest of Beca's non-Bella acquaintances surprise her.)

"What are you doing here, I'm in the middle of an op," Beca says, once Amy releases her.

"Well, I was gonna visit you, actually, so I tracked you down. But you were in a fishy jet with a fishy man, on your way to a fishy hotel in the Bahamas, and I needed confirmation that you weren't, you know..." And she makes a totally not subtle gesture towards the currently-incapacitated Jesse. Ah, duress. A complicated matter to attend to.

"What? No! He's my partner," Beca says, realizing that Jesse is still duct taped to the chair. She goes over to him and produces a Swiss knife from her person. (Where she keeps it is irrelevant.)

"How'd you get him here, anyway?"

"Got a bunch of Jewish guys to haul him up."

"What'd you do, flash them?" Beca says, her good humor resurfacing as she proceeds to cut Jesse's duct tape restraints.

"Please, bitch. Not gonna pay them _that_ much."

It's one of those rare moments of partial happiness for Beca, as the night didn't go the way she had been afraid it would.

Jesse on the other hand, is keeping it all in a mental note, as Beca leans down to cut him lose. His eyes are still glassy, and he is still foggy, but he doesn't miss the gentleness of her hands as she guides her knife along Amy's excessive use of duct tape.

"You okay?" She asks him.

It comes out in such a dry, cool tone, that Jesse wonders if she knows that he can tell. He can tell that she tries, too hard, to pull off that coldness. He wonders if she knows that he can see, even in his state, that her pupils dilated when she looked at him just now. That she had sighed softly upon seeing him. And that, as much as she probably doesn't realize it, she had been worried.

He carefully peels off the duct tape on his mouth, grimacing first before he can truly look her in the eyes to say, "I'm fine."

"Good."

She is up and away from him before he could savor the almost-smile that had nearly graced her features.

"We have a situation," she tells him, and it's all back to business.

...

In the balcony of their room, Beca tells Jesse the plot twist that Luke had laid on them tonight.

There had been some... miscommunication. They were never meant to target Conor. It had been Martina all along. At which point of her explanation, Beca is impressed that Jesse has maintained a levelness about him, even though she had just told him that he will have to achieve what she had been initially tasked; their roles are reversed now, and it's up to him to get the drive, as it will be with his ex. Most likely, on her person.

"Can you do it?"

"Yeah."

"Okay."

"Okay."

She doesn't patronize him; this is a really sucky turn of events, and she hates it, if only because she knows how it feels have that one regret that is impossible to wipe off your ledger.

But she also hates it because it will make her upcoming betrayal that much more... Sucky.

...

"So... What going on with you two?"

Amy and Beca sit in the living room of Beca's suite. Jesse has already left, and Hoult will be coming up any minute now, leaving Jesse and Martina alone in his suite. It's just a matter of time before the shit would inevitably reach it's destination of the fan. Beca is not looking forward to that.

"What?"

But Amy is not talking about their operation, or the stupid drive.

"Who is he?"

There are so many ways to answer that question, but Beca knows that Amy is interested in only one aspect of who Jesse is.

"No." She answers in the negative before even clarifying, because she knows where this is headed.

"Are you sure? You looked..."

"Looked what?" Beca's glare is a warning.

"Different," Amy finishes. She really is curious as to the extent of Beca's relationship with the guy she had just dosed with a brain retardant.

"I am fine," Beca dismisses. At which point, Amy decides that she will have to stick around... One way or another.

"So, I know you're busy," Amy says, getting up, "so I'll be on my way. Catch you on the flip-side, Shawshank."

"You're going?" Beca is suddenly worried about the kind of shenanigan her friend has in mind.

"Yeah, I'm going." _Duh_. "You're in the middle of an operation with Mr. Hotshot Treble, I'll just see you soon." Of course, with Fat Amy, there's always a catch.

"Not too soon, I hope," Beca mockingly teases.

"Eh..." Amy stops halfway out, her expression taunting _Maybe. Maybe not._

...

Beca's thoughts are scattered. And it's frustrating, even as Hoult enters the room, that she even has to feel the pinprick of guilt at the corners of her mind. Oh no, she won't let him die, because she still needs to cross him, get the drive and never see him again. Because that is how the world works.

_Fuck._

Her gaze is empty and going nowhere when Hoult calls her out and snaps her back to reality.

"I've a security feed," he says opening a laptop, "we can monitor Jesse's progress, should anything go wrong."

"Why." Beca is not feeling like watching. Still, on hindsight, that question was stupid.

"This is our last shot at getting the drive," he answers. Of course.

This is Beca's last chance, her only chance, to help the Bellas level out the playing field as well. But a guilty conscience has never fit her very well. That's not her style. So she shakes it off, shakes it out, and walks on over to Hoult's little screen, where they see that Jesse and Martina are enjoying a bottle of champagne. Looks like things are about to get hot and heavy.

...

"No offense, but I totally knew you were gonna break up with her," Marty says, pouring him yet another glass.

Jesse offers a polite, obliging smirk, only because he has to. As much as he hates this with all the fire of hell, this is work. This is his job, and he just has to suck it up until he can get Marty out of her clothes.

_Fuck_.

It doesn't help that they are probably monitoring him somehow, probably from the tiny camera, as placed by Hoult's security detail, over there at the corner. It's times like these that he really hates his job.

...

Beca reads their lips as things get closer and sexier between the two ex's onscreen. Her mind is flitting between thoughts of guilt and thoughts of sympathy towards Jesse. What he's doing is not easy.

But as always, she should have seen it coming.

...

There are many ways to communicate between operatives, without actually saying anything. For instance, lip reading and body language. Actions speak louder than words, but gestures are the language that operatives speak. Small, subtle, indiscernible things that actually communicate thoughts, ideas, and feelings.

So when Jesse needlessly places his glass from one side of his armchair to the other, the small gesture catches Beca's eyes.

...

"So," Marty says, cheeks flushed with one too many glasses, as she is kneeling in front of Jesse's sitting form and trailing her manicured hands up along his thighs, "why'd you break up?"

_Because we were never together._

Jesse wants nothing more than to just get this over with as fast as possible, but he cannot do anything rash and break cover without messing up the play.

What he actually wants to do, right now, is to ask Beca out.

Instead, he will have to convince his ex that he is still in love with her. But if he were being honest with himself, for the first time since he's seen Marty's face, he's not so sure that he feels anything anymore. Not if she would so willingly seduce him after her supposed boyfriend had just walked out. He has his standards, and it comes with such clarity (or maybe it's the after-effects of Amy's drug) that he realizes he had been pining over a ghost of an idea. For five years.

In Prague, they had been lovers. It was brief and intense. But intensity and brevity doesn't mix well with decision-making. And he wants nothing to do with the woman in front of him, reminding him to regret the heartache she had caused.

(He reserves the gravity of this revelation for later.)

So he shifts his glass to his other side. He hopes Beca sees it.

...

Beca pays close attention, as she reads his lips.

_"I broke up with her because I didn't feel anything for her. Not anymore. Not after seeing you after all this time."_

She doesn't know where this is coming from, or where it is going, but her brows furrow of their own accord.

_"You're amazing, and she... I thought we had something..."_

Beca cannot read Marty's lips, but she doesn't care.

_"She might have been something, once upon a time, but you..."_

Beca doesn't even notice that Marty is almost straddling him by now.

_"You're something else."_

And as Beca watches the other woman drape herself all over him, now full-on straddling and kissing his neck, Jesse looks at them, _at her_, through the camera.

The red lights in her brain go off so fast that it takes her two seconds to realize that her breathing has changed, and that Hoult has probably noticed.

"You okay?" He asks her.

No. No, Beca is not fucking okay, because of what Jesse had just basically hinted. And it wasn't subtle, either. She wonders if Hoult realizes what Jesse did with his glass, and how he had been directing his comments at Beca.

This was not covered in the books. There is no training manual for how to handle an operational partner who you're supposed to double cross, admitting feelings for you while his ex-girlfriend straddles his lap. And while the two of them get more physical, Beca's brain is on a million miles a minute, processing.

When Marty seems to excuse herself to freshen up, Jesse takes the opportunity to rummage through her purse. And he gets the drive. Again. H doesn't even wait for Marty to come back. He bolts.

"That's my cue," Hoult says, standing up and watching her, with what Beca can only assume to be a worried expression. She stands up as well.

"It's been great making your acquaintance. You sure you're alright?" he says as they shake hands.

"Don't be so sure about that, and I'm fine," she says. And while charm is usually an attribute generally reserved for the male of their specie, Beca has never liked meeting expectations. She prefers exceeding them.

Hoult meets her eyes, shakes his head, because Beca's charm, just like everything she possesses, works for her.

It's too bad that her brain processor is not working as much.

...

It's done. And he didn't even have to sleep with her.

Granted, it would have been better if he did. It would have completed the play, less risk of her finding out, and it would have been safer if he had just stayed the night. He should have stayed the night.

But everything had been against him since the start of this operation, from Luke's involvement at the very start, to the fact that he had to steal back from his former contact, to his ex popping out of nowhere (he should introduce her to Luke. They'd be great together). Everything had been against the tide.

His only consolation had been working with Beca.

And yes, she has the surly disposition of an 80-year-old sarcastic veteran, but it's such a refreshing mix, with her gorgeous intellect (not to mention her gorgeous _everything_). He had meant the opposite when he had called her tradecraft sloppy; her tradecraft rivals his. Which is a bit demoralizing to admit, sure, but it's true.

And now that he's got the drive, it's a cinch. It's over.

Ha. He wishes.

...

"So you got it."

"Yup, it's right here," Jesse says, patting his left breast pocket.

Beca is operating on automated mode right now. Luke will be joining them any minute, and she will have to do this fast. They pack their bags to leave, the two of them reverting back into strangers in a room. Beca procrastinates her decision all the more, waiting, just waiting, for the "right" moment, which she hopes will never come.

But it does.

It comes as a consequence of a series of actions that she had initiated since the start of the op. From her wardrobe choice, to the crossing of her legs, to the "accidental" brushing of her skin against his every so often, she had been gaming him, leading up to this moment, when the tension in the room just might cause a spontaneous combustion.

...

It was the sultry lilt of her voice through his comms that has him now taking her by the arm, turning her around and parting her mouth against his.

It was the the way she sat at the sofas, sprawled so languidly, that has him now taking the back of her neck and has him cradling the small of her back against him.

It was the way she pulled off her cover so effortlessly, despite it being the complete opposite of what she is.

And he will not deny that it was the way she had so "cared" for him in this operation, in what can pass for "care" in their world, especially when he was faced with the turmoil that was his ex.

It was the way she had told him to sit it out.

It was her.

...

Beca had known it was coming, but she wasn't quite as prepared when he turns her around and she feels his lips on hers, the gentle caress of his hand as he cautiously moves it to the back of her neck, and she lets herself fall into his embrace.

Because she is an operative.

All roads, everything she had done, lead to here and now, and because she is an operative, she tells herself that wrapping her arms around his neck is what should be done. And when his arm braces her lower back and she's tiptoeing against him, mouth hot against his, she tells herself that the searing heat, _the burn_, is natural.

She will deal with it later.

Right now, this is her mission, and however much she hates it, she has succeeded.

But when he braces her up on the vanity, her legs bracketing his hips and her breath is hitching, tiny warning bells ring in her mind. But her body is flush against him and his lips and mouth are _amazing_ and fuck. His hands are now on her knees and her dress can only ride up so much. (And she still has an uncomfortable pistol strapped to her thigh.)

_Eyes closed but mind open_, Beca tells herself.

He parts with a chaste kiss, and they are both panting, breathless, gasping for sensible reason, for an explanation of what the fuck just happened. Hair mussed, eyes wide, he looks at her. And she can tell that it's not a social cue type of eye contact. Check the eyes, check the pupils; see if she's lying.

And because Beca is _that good_, she knows he cannot tell.

...

Somewhere, hidden in the logic of his brain, he knows what he's doing.

But right now, he had kissed her, and she had kissed him back. And the hotel, this island, the world, can wait.

...

If infinity were dissected lengthwise, Beca thinks, it would probably feel like this.

Because he is slowly leaning in closer, _again_, and the lines between _controlled reactions_ and _uncontrolled impulses_ are getting blurry on this tabletop. His lips barely graze hers, when he leans down and presses his lips on her neck. Her eyes instinctively close, and her mouth falls open.

Now or never.

...

He can feel her breathing against his chest, her arms around him, and there is an unevenness to it that, even now, rings the little alarm bells in his trained senses. But when she's holding back a gasp from his lips beneath her ear, he can almost swear, the temperature in the room doubles.

So when she gently pushes him away, like, _three feet away—_with a pistol to his ribcage—he should know that all good things come to an end.

...

The change in the room temperature is palpable.

Jesse backs away, hands up, expression a little dazed and a little betrayed, while Beca sets herself off the table, finger on the trigger, and her other hand holding the drive that had been in his left breast pocket. Her expression is as guarded as his isn't.

"Beca."

The way her name falls from his mouth makes her almost cringe, as she slowly turns them around, and as she backs slowly away, out into the cool breeze of the balcony, and she can barely see him through the wispy curtains of the open glass door as she props herself on the railing outside, not once breaking his gaze.

His hands are still up in defeat, because he knows that she will not hesitate to pull the trigger.

"I'm sorry," she says, because it's all she can give him.

"I know," he replies. Because he does. He knows.

...

Staying intact for the duration of this entire operation had been difficult enough.

But those two words from him causes her to fall apart, and for the briefest of moments, she wasn't fast enough to catch the surprise, the damned unexpected fall at the pit of her stomach.

_Emotional compromise._

...

Jesse had a split second to see the aghast look on her face before she takes it back, falling backward in a straight drop down the building.

Out of instinct, he runs straight towards her in a near panic. But he leans down the railing and sees the strong, blue glimmer of the infinity pool below, as her body forms into a swan dive. A splash later, he sighs. Because she'll be fine.

He runs a hand through his hair. _Motherfucker_.

That was intense. _She_ is intense. His blood is running on adrenaline, because that was not a conventional way to end things between them. He has to lean on the railing and shut his eyes for a moment to collect himself, analyzing where he stands, and trying to figure out the mess that is his conflicting interests.

But the one thought on his mind is that he will miss her.

...

Beca comes up for air as two hotel personnel have started towards the under-maintenance pool, towards her, screaming something along the lines of how the fuck did she get there.

_How did she get here?_

She makes her way towards the edge of the pool, shimmying out of her dress in the process. Up there, where her room is, she looks. Jesse is still standing in the balcony. He's too far, and she cannot see his expression to gauge if he hates her now. For reasons unknown, she is standing in her underwear in the cold Bahamas air and the thought that crosses her mind is that she will miss him.

.:.

* * *

The rules of engagement are slightly different in this world.

For one thing, engagement takes on a completely different meaning, and there are no rules. Operatives do what they must, and staying three steps ahead is crucial. So Jesse doesn't wait for Luke to return. He packs up. The operation is done.

The drive is safe in his pocket. His _right_ breast pocket.

Still, he wishes it had not ended that way between him and Beca.

And because the universe loves him, he gets his wish.

* * *

**AN:** This was a pain the ass. I had such a difficult time writing this chap.

So, this was supposed to be up last Sunday, but I got carried away and it got... Longer.

Now, I need to know if I missed anything. Amy and Beca will be explained, and so will most everything. Their motives and feelings during this op will be explained a little more in the next chap. Jesse is a bit ooc, I understand, but it's difficult to transplant his personality to this world. Don't worry though, the Jesse you know and love will be showing up in the next chapters.

Now, I need to know: did I miss something? Was something off? Did I forget anything? Is it a boring chapter? Like I said at the beginning of this fic, I don't know what I'm doing anymore. Haha. :))

(slight warning: there may be some angst ahead.)

_Up next: The Bellas and Trebles convene..._


	10. Hot and Cold

While there are many, many lessons taught at Barden University's covert training facility, there has only ever been only one main lesson taught to up-and-coming operatives: in this world, nothing is ever what it seems to be. Nothing.

Plans change. People change. Things happen if for no other reason than the fact that truth is stranger than fiction. And there is no stranger truth than the enigma that is the non-relationship of one Jesse Swanson and Beca Mitchell, covert operatives for the Triplus and The Bellatorum.

.:.

* * *

THE BELLATORUM HQ, MONDAY: 0508

That Rebeca Mitchell is in the armory is already rather strange, but that she's in the armory, practicing at the shooting range, is cause for concern. Couple that fact with the fact that it's five am in the morning, and there is reason to believe that the world is about to end.

Beca doesn't do mornings. Then again, she doesn't do failed operations either. In fact, Beca doesn't _do_. She _finishes_. So when the op three days ago had gone haywire and they found out the drive was empty, Beca had to excuse herself from the room, because otherwise, she might break something. Like the building, for instance.

But it's been three days, and operatives know that mistakes are mistakes. You move on, you don't let them cripple you. It's a fact of life. It's also a fact of life that Beca Mitchell doesn't just settle. She is a closer, and she will close this fucking drive or she will die trying.

The sound of two sharp gunshots ring through the empty basement that is the armory for the Bellatorum, as the flimsy paper, holding up the black and white target, receives a blow.

"Beca..."

She hears Aubrey walking towards her, but she doesn't stop and pulls the trigger three more times, each hit perfectly aligned with the others. She's not wearing the proper headgear, because at her delicate state, if she is forced to follow a single rule, even as sensible as wearing hearing protection, she will blow up and shoot something she shouldn't. And that will not do for anybody's life insurance, no sir.

Aubrey comes up to her from around the corner.

"Beca..."

"You keep saying my name. Why."

She turns to Aubrey and the look she gets is one of sympathy. She is here as a friend, not a boss and not a spy. A friend.

"I'm not going to give you some crap speech about letting it go—"

"Good."

"—because I know how it feels," Aubrey says, and Beca can tell that she had been thinking about what to say on the way down, "but like you once told me, shit happens. If you let it get to you, you will eventually tire... And you won't be able to avoid staleness and the—"

"—_the sensual bluntness that breeds mistake_," Beca finishes, eyes closed in an effort to recall Ian Fleming's second paragraph. "Wow. Only you would have the presence of mind to quote a James Bond right now."

They return smiles, and Beca is so grateful for her friend. Sure, Aubrey is such an anal bitch, and Beca is an explosive bitch, which means the two of them can get a little at each others nerves at times. But at end of the day, they are still the same kind of woman, deep down.

And bitches get stuff done.

"You missed a spot," Aubrey comments, looking at the paper target.

"No I didn't," Beca replies, as the paper target gives, and falls plainly to the floor. Because Beca doesn't miss anything. Not details, and not people. That one instance, with the drive, had been her first.

She tells herself that he had every right to do what she had done to him, double cross them both. And okay, he was better at it than she had been. He got the fucking drive, she didn't.

But what she cannot understand, the one thing that she cannot wrap her mind around, was how he had so feigned innocence around her, and how she had fallen for it. His kiss, _that kiss_, was...

(She cocks her gun again and shoots violently into the armory after Aubrey has left, punctuating each thought with a bullet to a dummy's head.)

That. fucking. kiss.

She had been played by that one kiss. What drives her mad is that, for a second there, she had lost focus. She must have. That second had probably cost her the entire mission, because he was _so good_ that she didn't see it coming. When she thought she had him, it was the other way around. And the drama with his ex, and that stupid time she thought he had actually _died_... The irony is just so perfect.

She lets her frustration ring through the place, shooting the poor dummy's head until its face reduced into a mesh of smoking bullet holes.

...

TRIPLUS HQ, MONDAY: 2056

"What!?"

Bumper storms out of the room, royally pissed. But unlike any other day when he's being a jerk, this time, he actually has grounds.

"Bumper..." Donald uses the exasperated, slightly-pleading voice he reserves for when Bumper loses his shit and there needs to be some mediator.

"Where is Jesse? I swear to almighty god..."

...

(ONE WEEK LATER)

COLOMBIA, MONDAY: 0634

The fleeting thought that crosses Beca's mind whilst running from killer hounds on the rooftops of Colombia is a big fat _Why._ Why is she not yet getting a raise for this?

The early-morning, South American sun is hitting her blind spot in just the right intensity for her to almost trip and get eaten by the Rottweilers on her tail, as she tries to maintain a steady speed ahead of them, her feet clanging rhythmically against the tattered, shingled rooftops of the derelict buildings at the side of town that is no man's land. In fact, if fate had had this operation on any other day, she would have most certainly tripped by now, and she would have reached the inevitable and sudden end that operatives are famous for having, had they been famous at all.

Lucky for her, she had met Jesse.

And because she had met Jesse, and he had bested her not last week, every single operation that she had been on ever since had been a grotesque success, it's overkill.

"I need.. that air support now... Amy," she says to her comms, panting against the intense legwork as the Rottweilers are getting closer impossibly fast, because they are dogs, and Beca is human. She's not built for this kind of cardio.

_"Hang on, flatbutt. Still learning to drive stick."_

"Oh my god... that is not funny."

She can almost feel the hot, canine breaths against her thighs, can almost feel their saliva sputtering. She imagines how their teeth might feel sinking into her flesh, just so she could convince her muscles that they can do this. They can finish this. The drop is almost there, she can see it, right where the cluster of buildings end at the cliff. She can feel the vague pounding of blood on her arm, where a huge gash is still wet and bleeding. But she presses on.

She tells herself that if she is going to be a failure at the single most important mission that she had been assigned for her team, she will not fail anything else. Ever. Certainly not today, at least.

"Amy, any time now!" she says, the drop getting nearer, and she can't very well just sprout wings, now can she?

_"Working on it!"_

After last week's shenanigan at Beca's op, Amy had visited The Bellatorum, and has since become a working, honorary member, having been trained with the rest of the Bellas anyway at Barden University's covert training facility.

The four of them, including Aubrey and Chloe, had graduated from Barden, (non)legendary cover school that trains candidates for the CIA. Of course, Barden was also a recruitment center for... other, less legal organizations. The average graduates get a good education and proceed with their lives. The great graduates get into the CIA. But for the few who are a cut above the rest, they get to have a pick at the finest elite organizations of their choice. The Bellatorum is one such organization.

Beca wonders if her life would flash before her eyes once she dies from running off into a cliff and falling down the sharp, ocean side rocks. Or being eaten by dogs. _Damnit, Amy._

Just when she finds herself choosing between a mangled body and a dismembered one, a helicopter sharply comes into view, and the next seconds are spent picking up what little speed she could in order to launch herself at the aircraft's landing skids.

She barely wraps her small arms around it. Amy's driving is a bitch.

...

THE BELLATORUM HQ: 1542

But that was hours ago.

And as Beca walks the halls of her lovely headquarters, her top priority is getting a shower. And then giving the retrieved documents to Aubrey, who's anal tendencies are more suited for handling paper work. Shower first, though.

"Ei, where you going?" Amy calls after her, as soon as the elevators open to reveal the third floor of the Bellas Headquarters, a gorgeous, neo-classical building at no less than LA's upper east side. But Beca is stinky and sweaty and reeks of international cannabis and South American wet dog and she does not match her surroundings one bit.

"I need a shower."

"Um, shouldn't you go to the infirmary first?"

Whoops. It slipped her mind that, during her little trip to the Colombian Cartel, she had had a less-than-pleasant social encounter with one of the boss's dogs. And it wasn't a chihuahua, either. The memory reminds her that her forearm actually needs medical attention, and she winces as she touches it, damned reverse placebo effect.

But because surprises are a prerequisite in Beca's life, before before she can even weigh the two options of shower or stitches, she gets the surprise of her life when a certain Triplus operative appears out of nowhere on their floor. He stops when he sees her right then and there.

...

Operatives are usually trained to distance themselves from their feelings, take a step back, and analyze what is going on with the chemicals in their brain in order to form a logical analysis of their emotional state.

Jesse has been preparing himself for this possibility the moment he had come down from his flight and stepped on Los Angeles soil. He had been distancing himself all throughout the car ride, going up the elevator, and stepping onto the third floor. He is fucking prepared for this.

But he sees her, and nope. No, he is not.

Against his will, he feels himself swallow, and he has to force himself to distance, focus, for just five seconds, and understand, but all he can think of is how Beca looks like a deer in the headlights. He doesn't even get the chance to worry about her rankled state because she's suddenly walking away, and she disappears into the corridors.

...

She's going to kill Aubrey.

She walks the halls of her HQ, spotting several other members of their rival organization, making themselves at home and flirting with her Bellas ("No, Jessica. Stay away from them.") and she needs to find Aubrey or she will lose her shit in a way that would not be beneficial to anyone.

With hell on her mind, while the other Bellas seem to be rather relaxed and cool and fucking professional about having their arch enemies visit for tea this afternoon, Beca feels her blood is about to achieve nuclear fission. She just might break this ceiling, because apparently, someone had forgotten to send her a memo of today's scheduled Treble visit.

She finds Aubrey in her office, behind a few dossiers. She goes straight inside and slaps the shit out of Aubrey's desk, palms down, leaning menacingly.

The sudden sound of Beca's anger makes Aubrey, one of the best spies in the world, visibly jump.

"What the fuck is going on?!" Beca's snarl is dripping acid.

"Calm down, Beca—"

"Don't pull this shit with me, Aubrey! What the fuck is the Triplus doing here?!"

Aubrey takes a moment, hands her the dossier in her hands. Beca looks at it suspiciously, cautiously, because she has a few ideas where this could go, and she hates herself for being right all the time.

Well, almost all the time.

...

As the Trebles get acquainted with the Bellas in sunny LA, a sign of good faith on the part of both groups, Jesse tries to gather his wits into one, organized plan as he steels himself to face Beca. He needs to see her.

That's all he's thinking, now that they are in the conference room, the pantheon of legendary espionage demigods known as the Triplus, gathered round in the headquarters of their arch enemies, The Bellatorum. The air is riddled with such an implicit tension, these two groups in a single place, that it feels like the start of a really bad joke.

"Hey," Unicycle whispers to Donald as they wait for the Bellas to join them, "what did the Bella say to the other Bella when they saw each other at the hospital?"

The Trebles, like the Bellas, specialize in their own respective fields. Each one harnessed from a different part of the world, always, the ultimate best in whatever he is best at, the members of the Triplus aren't fazed in the least by the dazzling elegance of their surroundings. Rather, they sit quietly in the conference room, chilled. Just waiting.

There's Donald, who had been trained in the special forces of so many countries, it's hard to keep track of where he came from. He does, however, happens to be a super genius at anything binary-encrypted (blame his Indian genes). Unicycle takes his name from having been raised in the circus, utilizing his physical skills (and not ashamed of baring his chest every three minutes as proof) in complex operations. Ever since achieving worldwide acclaim as Interpol's most wanted, for ten years now, Bumper's nickname has stuck. His royal cockiness has made a name for himself by not making a name for himself, leading the Triplus into success everywhere they turn, while still managing to keep their official existence all but a blur to almost every legal entity in the world. Benji, who is "the single most useless Treble ever" as nicknamed by Bumper, is anything but. Heading operations, his genius brain is impeccable at remembering everything. Literally. Because he has a photographic memory. The rest of the Triplus are as deadly as they are skilled, if not more so.

However talented each one of them may be, ask any of them who the best is, and not even Bumper will contest that there is only one Triplus who is a cut above the rest, and has the record to prove it.

Jesse, born and raised as James Swanson. There's not much known about his life before he became an operative, but there are rumors. Rumors that there was this kid, an American, who had conned the French police once, into thinking that he was the son of Steven Spielberg. How this kid was born and raised in a family of only the best con men in the world, and how he had been recruited by none other than the invisible organization that had been responsible for 80% of all international high-stakes theft and undercover operations in the last seven years.

But today, this kid, who is now twenty-five years old, has only one person in mind.

"What?" Donald asks Unicycle back.

But they forget the joke, as the Bellas are now coming in, one by one, poised in every way, and the tension turns from cold to slightly warm. Okay, so it turned from angry to sexual pretty damn fast, especially because, even if the Bellas are suffering a losing streak, they are still women. Hot women, in a room full of men. Equally hot men. There is both intense rivalry and intense hormones. Of course, in such a strange situation, there's not a single one of them who can tell the difference.

The men stand up as the women take their seats around the room. The Trebles might be dirty little thieves, but they gotta have some form of decency.

Jesse looks around. No Beca.

No Aubrey either, so Chloe takes the lead. The first Bellatorum-Triplus meeting starts.

* * *

**AN: **Part 1 of 2

_Up Next: Beca, Jesse, and bathtub..._


	11. Everything Has Changed

(Same day): 2036

Finally.

Finally, Beca gets to have her goddamned shower.

At the west wing of the building are the living quarters, which is a modest way of calling their little mansion. The Bellatorum HQ, on top of being the HQ, is also second home to most of the Bellas. It is the first to one of them.

She enters their ridiculously over-the-top luxury bathroom as insisted upon by Chloe when she had gone on an art spree and had "acquired" several key paintings and antique items. Suddenly, it was top priority to have a five-star bathroom in their building, and then there was the kitchen, and then the rooms... Chloe can get a little carried-away sometimes.

Dirty, dingy, and tired as fuck, Beca turns on the water for the standalone bathtub and practically dumps a whole bottle for suds. Because today deserves a full-on bath, not just a shower.

Her arm, the chew-toy it had been earlier that day, is starting to hurt, but she doesn't notice this. What she does notice is the approaching, overly-overt footfalls of a man. She rolls her eyes.

The meeting earlier had had one objective: to acquaint the two groups to work together. Again.

Beca should not have been surprised that the drive, that stupid piece of plastic that everyone had been obsessing over for the last few months, once again manages to screw with her. Apparently, it's way, _way_ more valuable than any of them ever thought.

And it isn't with the Triplus.

Jesse had failed as well, because his ex-girlfriend from hell is one megabitch that had them all fooled, or the MI6 has got some really shitty internal affairs department. Both ideas are equally valid, Beca thinks. In any case, neither one of the two most powerful espionage organizations in the world has the drive.

And, as according to Stacie's gossip about how the meeting went, the goal is to keep the drive from the CIA, as well as the MI6. Which is perfectly understandable; they may be illegal freelancers in the world of espionage, but they are all incredibly insightful enough to know that "official" does not equate to "good guys". Bureaucracy has a terrible connotation. And it's not nice to have an international power struggle over one damned drive.

(It is also implied that this collaboration is on an as-needed basis. With the CIA and the MI6 hot on their tail, the two organizations need to join forces. Until they don't, anymore. But they'll cross that bridge once they get there.)

So now, both groups are to work together. Liaison with each other. Get in each other's beds.

Beca scrunches her face at the thought.

It's bad. She had already put the whole double-crossing issue aside for almost two hours already during the flight (thinking, instead, how epic her shower would be once she gets to HQ), and then this shit happens.

Okay, so she feels a little happy that he didn't get the drive either, blame her mean streak. But it's not fair that the first time she lets her guard down in the tiniest bit, the first time _in five years_, she gets burned for it. Again. And now she has to be reminded of that fact every time she works with the Trebles. Which would now be almost every operation. _Oh god._

He had made her feel like a fool to herself, but she resolves that she will not give him a next chance.

She had hidden herself away from the rest of the Treble-infested building today. She even did paperwork. She was _that_ desperate. She doesn't want to see the face of the man that had screwed her over... wrong choice of words, but still.

All she wants is a bath. That is literally all she wants.

Because the bathroom isn't exactly a room, per se (it's more like a bath area, because Chloe is a liberated woman who doesn't understand the concept of personal space, or the concept of doors), she hears him stop before rounding the corner.

"Hey," he calls.

"What?" she says back to him, her tone perfectly tempered to achieve a balance between annoyed and disinterested. He appears from around the corner, facing a glare that could melt the sun. She is not going to give him the satisfaction of seeing her affected, as she sets her mind to it's laser precision.

His expression seems sincere enough, but she's been fooled by that, one too many times. Over-all, he looks fine. In fact, he is so good that there seems to be legit concern painted on his face.

And it pisses her off.

...

In the twelve years of his existence as a spy, Jesse had never once imagined that he would ever feel like this on the way to a bathroom.

He doesn't ever get put off, even in a high-pressure environment. The Bahamas had been one of the very few times he got a little iffy, but that was because he was confronted by a mistake in the form of a woman. But Beca had saved him from that. And now, all he wants to do is to clear the air between the two of them, because all week long, that's all he could think about.

Also, he needs his flash drive back.

He can hear the rushing of water as she fills the bathtub. He can tell it's a bathtub, because his ears are keen on these things. Another thing he can tell from the acoustics is there is no door (or wall, for that matter) to the bathroom... So he stops right before he "enters".

"Hey," he calls, his tone perfectly untempered, as he is trying to be sincere right now. He will have to, if he has any hope of fixing things out between them.

"What?"

He can hear her tone. It's the deadly calm tone of hers. Oh fuck. He doesn't know what he's getting himself into, but he shows himself. She is standing there, her back to him, leaning on the sink, right before she turns around, leaning back on the sink. He takes her in.

She looks like complete and utter shit.

Her hair is a nest, she has bruises where she shouldn't, and her arm is barely recognizable from the caked blood melding with flesh. Her tank top bears the stains of grime and sweat and her eyes are sunken. She is overworked and overdone.

For a moment, the image of her, tired, beaten, and worn down, physically, is seared into his mind. An instinct, a strange little creature that had probably been lying dormant in his brain for the longest time, suddenly starts getting vocal. And it's telling him that he doesn't like this picture one bit.

She cocks an eyebrow at him. "You gonna stand there and gape at me or you gonna talk?"

...

She is pissed, okay. She is fucking pissed that this guy has the gallbladder to go over to her and talk to her after hours, when all she wants is to fall asleep in a warm tub and _die_.

And she is even more pissed that he's looking at her and she can't find a hint. Not one, fucking hint of what he's really, truly feeling, because she can't trust his anything anymore. Not his smile, not the way he pockets his hands like so, not anything. And she can't gauge his motives if she doesn't understand what he's feeling. He opens his mouth several times, each time a different variant of his thoughts try to escape. Finally, he settles with a remark.

...

"You look great."

Because he knows that sarcasm is her language, he feels a bit of triumph at the choking snort that he elicits from her.

"Yeah, well, you look even better," she dryly says, turning around to wash up at the sink. "Is there a valid reason why you're bothering me?"

He looks at her through the reflection of the antique mirror as she whisks the water from her hands, gathering her disheveled hair into a messy bun, preparing for her bath because he is not worth her time of day. He doesn't miss the hideous bruising on her exposed shoulder, or the small tattoos that he sees from what skin he can glimpse. She may look like shit, but there's a strength there. This woman is unreal.

She makes a move to take off her top, and he continues talking, turning around automatically. Because he is a gentleman (_goddamnit_).

"So," he starts, determined not to be distracted by the sound of discarded clothing, "I've got this problem, help me out here."

"You seem to be under the illusion that we're friends," she says, and he can just make out that she's unbuckling.

(He imagines a cold shower.)

"Well... yeah."

"Nope, wrong answer."

"Beca..." (It comes out as a groan, which partially stems from the sound of her, out of her jeans.)

"Look, I get it, okay?" he can hear the agitation in her voice, "Between the two of us (she removes her sock)... you played me (she removes her other sock)... and I fell for it. You win. Get over yourself."

"Listen, Bec—"

"I am so not in the mood," she pads towards the tub, "for your gloating. So if you could just, like, _not_? That would be great."

The water is still running in the bathtub when he hears absolutely nothing, which means that she doesn't want him hearing her out of her last articles of clothing. He waits for the sound of a submerging body into the tub, before he resumes.

"...I didn't cross you."

He can hear her still inside the tub, the sloshing of the water gentles. He can also hear himself internally freak because he has absolutely no clue as to what she's thinking right now. She finally sighs.

"Oh, no. You just happened to have a spare drive in your left breast pocket, is that it?"

Her tone has an implied undercurrent of _I hate your guts you lying bastard_, and he can't blame her. But this here, is a misunderstanding.

"That is... vaguely what happened... actually."

"Oh, wow."

"Okay, just... hear me out. You... took the wrong drive."

Silence.

"I am insulted you think I would fall for that. Really."

This allusion to their first encounter makes him smile. He hasn't won yet. But he's getting there.

"It's true. Well, we both did..."

He can tell that she's weighing his words, counting the factors, her mind an impossibly accurate machine. And he's confident. Because he is telling the truth. And so far, he knows that she can always tell the difference.

Unlike him. That is not one of his strengths.

...

He still has his back to her, still has his hands in his pockets. She is still submerged in warm, sudsy water (that is probably turning a shade darker underneath the bubbles, thanks to her gross layer of dirt), her flesh stinging as the soapiness washes over the raw pink of the wound.

He still manages to surprise her, even now, as she is naked in her bathtub, formulating some kind of plausible explanation for his words.

Yes. Of course he's telling the truth. All it takes for her is five seconds. Two to realize it, and three for it to sink in.

"Son of a bitch."

...

He finally releases the sigh he's been holding back, the moment he catches wind of her tone. That dry, smirking tone she reserves for when she smiles to herself out of sheer I-cant-believe-I-missed-that. He risks turning around to see her expression, as he had so pictured she would be.

"That is... just... wow."

Shaking her head at him, he lets her smirk to her delight, because he is safe.

"So what happened?" she asks, out of politeness, to give him a chance to say what she's already figured out. (Being five feet away from the tub isn't exactly doing his focus a favor, but hey. He can roll with this.)

"Here's something I probably shouldn't tell you but—"

"You're trained that way."

He gives her a look of assent.

In their world, it is important that nothing is what it seems, because god knows why. People come up with training manuals for the most ridiculous things, like "How to deceive the enemy into thinking you're asleep", or "How to deceive the enemy into thinking you're a random drunk stranger at a bar". In this case, Jesse, and probably the entire Triplus, have memorized a page from "How to confuse everyone about the difference between left and right", under the section labeled "Be inconsistent about it".

"I... should have seen that coming," she says.

"You and me both."

It's a sad fact that they were both outsmarted by circumstance... but he's not just talking about the drive. She looks up at him, and the impact with which the realization hits her almost shows... This revelation changes so many things, not least of which are the implications of what really happened that night, between them. And who had played whom.

_Oh, _Beca thinks.

But so as to change the focus of the atmosphere into something less awkward, his eyes drop to the arm draped around the rim of the tub. All at once, his brows furrow, and he doesn't hide the concern in his voice when he goes over to her tub side, closing the distance between them.

"You should probably have this checked."

She's watching him now. So very closely, she takes note of his gait, his tone, his pupils. She can tell that he's observing her bruises, the greenish patches of her skin around her neck and shoulders. It's the only part of her he can see, and he's probably calculating the extent of her injuries. Crouched on one leg, beside her, there are three different ways she can kill him from this position. And she would have considered it, too. Three minutes ago, she would have. But right now, now that she knows the concern on his face is not manufactured, she kind of... doesn't understand. Like, at all.

"So why'd you do it?"

...

He's jolted from his observations, losing his grimace when she suddenly speaks. The physical distance between them is probably not professional at the moment, but they both know that the line of "professional" is, undoubtedly, a little hazy after all they've been through.

"Do what?"

"You knew. I was going to cross you. What happened to your counterplan?"

When his eyes drop and the corner of his lips pull up in an embarrassed smile, she realizes her mistake. He didn't know.

"I didn't have one."

Whoops. There it is.

But because the implications of that one line is too heavy a topic to process, she does what she does best, and smirks him off.

"You're an idiot."

"Hey," he says, mock hurt, "Idiots have feelings too, you know."

And the most appalling revelation of all is that she does.

She should be happy that her instincts have yet to fail her; her mistake was not a result of her miscalculation of him. She should be glad, really, that she hadn't exactly been wrong that whole time, and that she hadn't exactly been played. His training is a factor she could not have seen coming, and these little things, the little uncontrollable parts of a mission, _external variables_, can sometimes cause a mistake. As much as she likes to count her factors before going to bed, this is a black sheep. She knows this all too well. But that he had kissed her is on a whole other league of analysis altogether.

And he didn't even do it with a purpose. (Which is a shitty factor now, all on it's own.)

"And I kinda need my... drive back?" he says.

"Oh my god," she replies, her eyes wide with amusement, "I got _your_ drive? Your _personal_ drive?" The universe has a funny way of dealing with her shit.

"I would appreciate it if you keep this between us—"

"Why the hell would you even have that on you?!" she says, in one of her rare giggly-smiles.

"I hate plane rides, okay. It helps with the jet lag."

"How can it do anything, it was empt—it's encrypted," she realizes. _Oh my_, this is priceless.

"Yeah... please don't—"

"So what's on it?" She suddenly says, mock interested, "The secrets of the Triplus? Important documents? Oh my god, does it have your real name when I decrypt it?"

"I would really like to have it back, preferably unchanged and _not_ like—you know—damaged... please?"

"Tell me what's on it, and I'll consider."

He knows she's a spy when she can lace an innocent statement with just the right amount of husky mockery to give him tiny goosebumps in his guts. She's gaming him. And he kind of... doesn't mind.

"Its got a lot of... movies," he answers sincerely. He regrets it the moment her eyes bulge out.

"Oh my god, gross—"

"What? _No! _Jeez, Bec—"

"Can we not talk about your porn collection while I'm—"

"It is _not porn_! I meant real, cinematic pieces. You know, Hitchcock, Woody Allen—"

"Jesus christ, Jesse! I don't wanna hear their porn names!"

It's now Jesse's turn to have a scrunched-up face.

"What? Do you not know who Sir Alfred Joseph Hitchcock is?"

"Is he a posh, British crime lord?" she replies dryly this time, leaning her head back in the tub and sinking lower, her eyes drifting shut as she finally lets herself relax.

"You... don't know... _what?!_"

"You act like this is some protocol general knowledge."

"That's because _it is!_ Psycho? Rear Window, Dial M for Murder? Do you seriously not know any of his movies?!"

"I don't watch movies."

Her eyes are still closed, and they cannot see him get visually assaulted by that information.

"You're not serious."

She opens her eyes lazily and half-liddedly cocks an eyebrow at him. She vaguely registers the look of mild trauma on his face, and she can't help but stifle a giggle, okay. This guy is an absolute nerd. Who knew.

"You look like I just insulted your honor," she says, with another giggly smile. (He is on a roll.)

"Oh, you did. But I forgive you for that. Because I'm a forgiving person."

She rolls her eyes before she closes them again, but the subtext of that statement is not lost on her.

"And just so you know," he adds, "I will not let this little piece of information go. We need to deal with this, Bec. You need some kind of—I don't know—education on this or something. This is unacceptable."

"Your nerd boner is showing."

"I can't even talk to you right now."

He can see the corners of her mouth light up slightly, eyes still closed. But he can't quite indulge in the fact of her totally naked form underneath all the foam (damned bubbles), literally inches away, because he is still not cool with her current, physical condition. He debates himself about telling her not to overwork herself, but he's not her boyfriend.

And he stifles a chuckle, because that's funny. He doesn't remember buying a ticket on this train of thought.

"Something funny, nerd?"

"I was just thinking about how you were completely right about you looking better when you're naked."

"Well, you know. Gotta look out for the figure. It's the money-maker."

...

She hears him laugh beside her. She's tired, and this talk could've gone in a completely different direction, with him telling her how wrong she is, and how stupid she's acting, and how idiotic they both are, and how terrible her work ethics are, shame on her to double cross him. That would not have ended well for either of them. Instead, there's an odd comfort to his being kind. In his own nerdy way.

She feels him tentatively touch her arm, prod it, gently, turning it over a bit, but she doesn't open her eyes, doesn't make a move. She just lets him.

"Have this checked," he says. And it's not a question or a suggestion, either.

She opens her eyes to tell him to go mind his own damned arm, but the expression that greets her is one that she is not familiar with. The strange gentleness of his hands and the warmth and sincerity with which his eyes meet hers is enough for her to question the number one rule in their profession. Nothing is ever what it seems, but he's smiling at her (and worried for her?), and maybe it's _not nothing_.

But because good things don't last...

"Oh, sorry, were you two having a moment?"

They are interrupted, because, on top of her driving, Fat Amy's timing is also a bitch. Towel on her shoulder, the two of them look at her and Beca gives Jesse one her signature non-smiles.

"And, I'm out," he says, standing up in one bound. His grin is reaching from ear to ear, and if she weren't naked right now, Beca would very much like to wipe it off the smug bastard's face.

"So, I'll see you?" he winks.

"You got something in your eye there?"

He makes a mental note to never try that again.

He exits, walking back to the corridor from whence he came. The only thing that makes Beca realize that she's smiling when he's gone is Fat Amy's look. Ah, shit. She's not gonna hear the end of this.

"Mr. Hotshot Treble, eh?"

"Don't."

...

Jesse walks out of the Bellatorum HQ with something more than a slight grin. He cannot believe what just happened. Literally, cannot.

He hadn't expected Beca, the small sarcastic person that she is, to actually laugh. In his presence, no less. He had even thought, at one point during the week, that she had been planning the demise of his manhood, from how it ended between the two of them.

But most of all, he hadn't expected her to actually feel any guilt from what she had done.

And he's not that naive; he knows the game. And okay, he was half-expecting her to cross him, it was a fifty-fifty chance. He couldn't read her, but he knew it was possible. He wouldn't have taken it against her, they needed the win anyway. He wasn't planning to counter. But there was... _something_ in spite of the cold, numb professionalism that he was expecting. And that was enough. He kissed her, just because. She was beautiful and skilled and _kind_... in her own hard way. And he kissed her. The mission be damned.

(And okay, maybe his decision-making process was affected by Amy's hallucinogenic drug. That was strong shit.)

Then she crossed him, and he half-expected it. What he didn't expect was the slight in her expression, just before a gut-wrenching drop.

And then she had to go, _strip_, right behind him, and take a ridiculously apathetic bath, without even getting medical attention. He's starting to think this woman has a partial death wish (which is not a healthy thought, because that is actually quite possible in their line of work).

But Jesse is a stubborn creature. And as he finds himself more and more intrigued, she will find out that he's not the type to stop at just one encounter.

...

"So, tell me again what your relationship is with this hot, hot man candy."

But Beca doesn't hear Amy's disguised teasing, because she has buried half of her face underwater, looking at Amy with distrustful eyes.

She closes them and goes under, allowing herself to fully listen to the silence.

His name is bouncing around her mind, echoing off the corners of the bathtub, because she can't wrap her head around it. His penchant for showing up in the most unexpected, but often convenient, times is really one, big, universal joke. She must have done something nice in her past life.

Then again, perhaps things are just starting to look up for her. It's about time.

.:.

* * *

There is a paradox that tries to answer the question of what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object.

The Bellatorum and Triplus are now racing against and with each other, for a drive whose contents are yet to be divulged, even to their top operatives. And as Beca tries to shut him out of her thoughts, and Jese continues to mull her over, it no longer becomes a question of what happens. It all becomes about the _when_.

There is a reason why it's called _irresistable force_.

* * *

**AN: **omg...

I seriously did not expect the response to this story. I am just, overwhelmed that you guys read this. And it inspires me to keep writing and now, Im just bursting with so many ideas. Thank you so much. Like, whoa.

Sometimes I wonder if I should continue, but ya'll manage to surprise me every time. So thank you, so so much. :) I mean, really fighting the urge to single out each and every one of you for reviewing and reading this. :')

I dedicate the latter part of this chapter to my awesome Beta, who hasn't read it yet. ;)

And this is where I leave you guys, before I update again. I know, it's not much. I'm sorry if I missed anything, or if it sounds weird. Or if it's just an ok chappie, and I am especially sorry for the updates, but y'all should know that I think about this every spare minute. And I am so thankful for your reviews. Like, really. Your questions and comments help me so so much. And I thank you. :)

Yes, things will get diggity. :D


	12. Interlude

There is a theory.

Pain can be categorized as two kinds: psychological, and real.

The first one is the kind that takes years to master. It's the a kind of hurt that can be taken, compressed, and made easier. Its a very simple pain, really. It's all in the mind; once you get it, once your understand it, you take control. You mentally file it away, just like everything in this world that you work in. You will it to be gone, and it is.

The second one is different.

You grit your teeth, you tell yourself it's okay. You are alive. You will make it through this. This feeling of a blanket of intense numbness that hurts you more that you could possibly bear, but you bear it anyway. You taste the iron in your blood as you bite your lip. You try to remember the familiar taste, try to compare it to the five-week-old carton of milk you left in your fridge. You can smell the wet clumps of your hair stuck to your face. They smell heavy, like suffocating in melted lead. Your heart is beating, and it's getting tired of beating. But it's okay, you're still alive.

And then the shock overtakes you, all over again, and you have to tell yourself that being alive is a good thing. No matter how much you wish otherwise.

Psychological pain is the scald on your skin. The burn on your flesh. It's the tiny nerves sending chemical signals to your Thalamus.

Real pain doesn't leave scars. It stays and stays, and keeps you awake in your nightmares. Keeps you going. It keeps you alive.

No matter how much you wish otherwise.

.:.

* * *

The central muscles near the left of her chest clutch involuntarily, and her eyes fly open, but her consciousness is not yet awake. Not quite yet.

She doesn't hear herself pant, and she doesn't feel her heart beating too fast for her own good. It's the instability in her hands and the bone-whiteness of her knuckles where they are fisting the bedsheets, holding on for dear life, or what's left of it. She doesn't feel the cold moist of her sheets, and she doesn't taste the light sour of the blood in her mouth, where her lip has split from the force of her nightmare.

What she does feel, what she _doesn't want to_ feel, is a lingering emotion at the back of her mind. That feeling of staying in a subconscious place.

She sits slowly upright, here in the dim of her room in the Bellatorum. She tries to work her logic, that left side of her brain, the one in charge for logical reasons, for sanity. It's on a slow reboot, lagging behind as she cringes from the faint feel of a shock going up her limbs...

_No. God, no._

Equally slowly, she brings her hands over her face. But she doesn't sob. She places them over her face so she can smell her own skin, and know for sure, that she is not burning.

When she pulls her hands away, there is a smear of blood, where her palms touched her lips. It looks black in the dim light of the moon, shining through the windows.

This is the image that makes her scream silently.

She knows this routine, she just needs to let it in, let in all back in, for five seconds. Five seconds only, and then...


	13. Maverick

PART II

SATURDAY, CHINATOWN (NEW YORK): 2343

She's tapping the toes of her stilettos against the dirty concrete, the light of a single lamppost illuminating her on this derelict square foot, the cemented brick wall in front of her and the heavy-looking chunk of metal that it has for a door, both are staring down at her in this impossible task. Herself within the three-feet distance between two tall slabs of wall in front, and behind her, two buildings, she finds herself between a rock and a hard place. Her eyes are dark with the eyeliner of days past, not yet completely washed away, like the tiredness. But her pupils are alive.

They have to be.

In the distance, she sees the red and green and yellow hues of Chinatown's night lights. Standing here, at the back of The Little Monkey, looking like a prostitute, she keeps her back straight, her glares razor sharp, because god forbid, if she becomes the target of a late-night, sex-craving addict.

She doesn't know if she has it in her to spare a poor bastard like that.

And to think, a week ago, she was just with him.

But she's here now, wearing a little black dress, smoky eyes, hair in a messy bun, pistol strapped. She wonders if there will be occasion to use it tonight. Most likely. There is a chance.

Ah, the perils of not having a gameplan. Without protocol, it's easy to lose track of the factors, and it becomes anyone's best guess.

But protocol be damned, she needs to find him. Aubrey would freak, like she always does, but she needs to find him.

She doesn't know how she'll live with herself, if she doesn't.

_Damnit, Swanson._

.:.

* * *

_(TWO WEEKS AGO...)_

_"Gentlemen, ladies."_

_Chloe takes lead in the conference room of the Bellatorum headquarters, her fiery red hair swept in a tight bun at the top of her head, as each member of the Bellatorum and Triplus patiently awaits the next order of business. Most of the Bellas are present, except for Aubrey, Amy, and Beca (to the infinite disappointment of Jesse). _

_"Most of you know me already, but for those who don't, my name is Chloe. I am the third in rank in The Bellatorum," Chloe says, making sure to make eye contact with each of the males in the room, showing them that she is far from intimidated by their silent condescension. She doesn't give her last name, because no one does. It is strict protocol, in their special brand of espionage; last names are strictly need-to-know._

_There has always been friction between the two groups, none more so than now, when the only thing between them is a conference table that Chloe isn't sure would hold under all the dead weight of hate. So she makes sure to keep a smile on her face, and she shoots her Bellas a warning. She briefed them on this. No hateful, spiteful, challenging, or flirty glares allowed across the table. (Stacie is having a hard time complying, eyeing Donald with a mix of everything.)_

_"I assume you all know why we're here, so I'll get right to it. The drive that was our priority zero so far, has not yet been recovered by either one of our groups. This drive, as according to both our sources, contains highly-sensitive information that we need to protect."_

_"What's on it?" A Treble asks, making some of the Bellas roll their eyes, which make some of the Trebles shoot evil glares. _Fucking domino effect with these two groups._ Chloe feels the tension rising with every hostile exchange, so she gives him a kind smile, hoping to calm everyone the fuck down._

_"That is an excellent question. Um, Bumper," she turns the table over to the Treble leader, who looks bored as fuck._

_"Well, Hat, if we knew, it would be the first thing we talked about, wouldn't it?"_

_Chloe still gives Hat a smile, but a part of her really wants to sic the Bellas at Bumper._

_"Okay. So, to answer your question, just like Bumper said, as of now, we don't have that information."_

_"What makes it valuable?" Jesse is the first one with a decent question, without a hint of condescension in his voice when he addresses her._

_"According to our sources," Chloe starts, "It's encrypted in, um..." She looks over to Lilly, who mutters something with her bug eyes._

_"Double, bio-algorithmic systems bypass," Donald offers. "Basically, unsurpassable program. You know, national security shit, and all that. It'd take me a week to crack it."_

_("I bet it would," Stacie mutters. Donald hears her, but barely reacts.)_

_"Yes, well, it's supposed to be highly sensitive information, and no doubt, both our organizations have been receiving offers from left and right, from different agencies and nations, to retrieve it. However, it has come to our knowledge that this could be very dangerous information if it falls into the wrong hands. This is why we have a proposition to you, members of the Triplus._

_"We would like us to work together, for the time being. We need to get that drive, and then, after decrypting it, we could make a more informed decision on who to give it to. Of course, splitting all profit, clean and square."_

_She has the Trebles's attention now; she has all of their attentions, actually. The Bellas momentarily set aside their manhate in order to show how very serious they are._

_"With our pooled resources, not to mention our shared operatives, we could retrieve the drive, hopefully before it can cause damage, or anything else._

_"Our first stop is with a man named Dan Rivers, with whom we know Martina had met with, prior to returning to Prague. (At the mention of his ex, Jesse cringes a bit.) Now, the problem with this is that we're not entirely sure what he looks like. We don't have any records, and there are a million Daniels in the database._

_"What we do know, however, is that he will be in Vegas, a week from now. And we need to act fast..."_

.:.

* * *

(A WEEK AGO...)

THURSDAY, THE ROCKY HOTEL, (LAS VEGAS): 2037

It's a fine place, Jesse thinks to himself. Not too shabby. Definitely high-end, if the black-market Persian carpets are anything to go by. Very classy shit, this is. Which means that he is within delicate proximity of criminal activity.

This is going to be one hell of a night.

He is in the fine, furnished entertainment suite of a small hotel in Vegas. Small, it may be, but its lack of quantity is overcompensated by its extravagant quality. There are a number of guests, and you know you're swimming with the sharks when the minimum bets are at 800 grand. And that's only for poker.

He sticks to the bar, mindful of his surroundings. Damn, it's been a while since he's been in one of these. He can hear the risks jingle with every clatter of the dice, every shuffle of a deck, and well, he's missed this. What kind of a con-artist would he be if he didn't know how to give casinos a run for their money? Eyes wide, he notices several nationalities. Chinese, Armenian (not good, by the way), Russian... Yup. This is one of the more prominent hotspots in the city. Gotta be careful tonight.

Still, he waits for Jessica, his Bella counterpart for this mission.

The Bellas and the Triplus are running about four different operations within the city, all in search for this one, faceless man. It's one of the biggest plays he has ever been in, with two of the greatest organizations in the world, and he's not about to screw it up. Out of all the hotbeds for criminal activity, with their resources, they were able to narrow it down to four. He is paired with the Bella who is (as according to bullshit psychology and compatibility tests, if you ask him) the most compatible with him. And Jessica's nice. Though a bit bubbly for him, he must admit.

(Yes, he does wish he was paired with Beca. But he's not about to make a scene and insist. God knows, his kiss was already dubious enough, and _god help him _if that scary Bella leader finds out... if Beca tells her...)

He's a bit bored, so he orders scotch on the rocks, standing by the bar. Thank god his drink wasn't that expensive, because he isn't able to enjoy it. He almost spits most of it out once he turns to look at the entrance.

Holy fuck.

...

SAME NIGHT, THE HARMONICS HOTEL, (LAS VEGAS): 1954

The moment that Beca pulls up at her venue, she freezes.

This is her part of the play. She should not be wasting time, sitting behind the steering wheel of her Mercedes, stalling the engine.

But she cannot help the shudder that the sight gets out of her. Sure, she knew the Harmonics Hotel would be a completely illicit hotel, complete with non-existent valet parking and no labels or flashy, Vegas colors, but she didn't expect flickering lights, and a whole lot of grey concrete. She certainly does not expect a small tube where she is supposed to drop down, down into the basement, where her Treble counterpart (why they paired her with that Indian guy is a mystery worth several Nancy Drews) would be waiting for her.

But she gulps, and she freezes, and she needs to get the left side of her brain to work.

She cannot do this. Not with her slight relapse two days ago, she cannot.

...

THE ROCKY HOTEL: 2038

Jesse needs to pull his jaw back into an acceptable position below his mouth.

Not literally, though. He's not _that_ terrible at hiding emotions. But christ almighty, the woman that just entered the place could almost, single-handedly, steal all the men away from their wives and mistresses from this joint tonight. And he feels like the luckiest bastard in the world, when the first eyes that hers come into contact with, are his own. He knows she can read the little bit of slack-jawed (metaphorical, okay. And it's only a _little bit_) wonder that his eyes are throwing her way, and the corners of her lips twitch in a fashion that makes his insides twitch.

She approaches him, around twenty steps away, taking her sweet time with each step, letting all the men in the room stare at her disinterest in them. And when she's a step in front of him, he needs to tell himself to get his game face on. This is a play, of course she would be dressed that w-

The closer she gets, the more he understands the material of her dress. Or, rather, the _lack of_.

"I... didn't know we were going to a fishnet party, Bec," he tells her, allowing himself no more than a single glance at the lacy thing she is wearing (which looks like a lacy screen protector and nothing more), forcing himself to face the bar.

"You like it?" she asks, smug smile on her lips as she gives him a peck on the corner of his mouth and leans her elbows on the bar. Yup. He is one lucky bastard to be able to answer that question.

"You really don't want me to answer that," he says, looking down on his drink (and forcing his periphery not to linger too much on the bare skin of her legs, showing clearly through the _really thin_ fabric).

She merely smiles, satisfied that he's well and properly semi-rattled. She had to wear her black lace, quarter-sleeve dress, so she can hide the flesh-colored bandage around her healing arm, and also so that her faint, colorful bruises wouldn't be too obvious. What the dress has in terms of coverage, though, it lacks in terms of... everything else. So... it's a little see-through. At least, she can camouflage her skin.

"Where's Jessica?" Jesse asks, changing the subject.

"Not here. She's with Donald. We changed."

"Hmm..."

She can tell he's working that information to his self-satisfying conclusion, and she throws him an eyebrow and clucks her tongue at him. She can just see that smug little smile.

"It's not like that, weirdo," she tells him, turning to face the bar herself, and flagging the bartender. They have a few more minutes to kill before the play starts, so she takes this time to ease into a different setting, one that she had _not_ been preparing for, based on the briefing documents.

"You know, Beca, we really don't have to stand on ceremonies. If you really want me, you could just ask." His eyes twinkle at her from behind his glass, and the eye-roll is a bit delayed from her.

"I'd be more than happy to oblige you," he adds, and this time, she needs to throw him a more serious look.

(He should really stop trying to game her, because she's getting tempted to retaliate.)

"You really shouldn't have worn that tonight," he continues, a bit more serious this time, to match her. "The guests would wonder why my sister would dress like a hooker around me."

"Then let's change the cover," she says. (He knows it shouldn't, and he doesn't know why it does, but this gets him a wee bit more excited for tonight.) "Congratulations, Jesse. Tonight, I'm all yours. Again."

"Just like old times."

She chuckles humorlessly. "Let's hope not."

He loves the sound of that.

She downs the last of her drink, and so does he, when they notice that several more guests have arrived, and it's time. Over at table number five, things are getting pretty heated. Looks like they found their target.

...

Jesse takes his place over at the table, loading up on the chips and giving everyone else a lovely smile around. He makes careful note of their potential candidate.

They got wind, and they've also calculated the probabilities, that this target would be 1) the best at poker, 2) would be at a private casino tonight, and 3) would respond to a lost bet. That is, they'll need to get the target's attention by playing a game and throwing away several huge grands. So Jesse is expecting a bit of a Hugh Hefner type, sporting a cigar and some soft overcoat and large-chested female companions. The potential candidate that greets him does not meet his expectations...

Young, dark-haired, and quite the looker, Jesse thinks (he is comfortable enough with his masculinity to be able to gauge). About as old as he is, definitely not older. He's no neophyte, either. His face is expressive enough to come across as natural, without giving anything away. Trademarks of a professional bluffer.

Jesse takes a peak at his cards, casually glancing up to the others around the table, so he can make further calculations. The man is looking at him with a wary, calculating expression, but he smiles when Jesse returns the look, and Jesse doesn't trust him one bit.

He glances over at Beca, at the bar, just to let her know that he's got this.

...

She sees Jesse's reassurance, and gives a small nod. Her part is yet to come, but being alone by the bar isn't really her thing. Hmm...

She hums to herself, playing with the rim of her margarita, listening absently to the Spanish guitar drifting her way, across the myriad sounds of vice and alcohol. She wonders what she could do for a bit of fun tonight, while Jesse is completing his part of the operation. Thank god she had been able to exchange parts with Jessica, who completely understood. She doesn't want to think about going down into that shabby hole in the ground, all four sides surrounded by concrete and the flickering lights...

She stops thinking about that.

"Hello there, sweetheart."

So when an adequate specimen of the male specie makes his way to her left, with probably a pocketful of gold to spare tonight, she decides to make a distraction out of him.

...

Jesse can count cards.

It's one of the first things that his uncle taught him; how to count cards and not get caught. Sure, you'll eventually get caught if you do it too often, too big, but he was good. He was really good. At sixteen, he was a millionaire. The rush was inexplicable. Of course, that's only one of the many perks of being a Treble, so he wasn't too caught up on gambling as one of his means of income.

He's still waiting for the right time to strike out, when he tries to glance up at Beca...

Who is being chatted up by this douche...

A douche that _he knows_.

Aw, hell no.

...

"Keep talking like that, and I just might take you up to my room."

She knows he's just responding to him, and he probably thinks he's getting lucky tonight, especially with the way she just "innocently" used the words _penetrate_ and _blow_ in the same sentence. But he's about as subtle as a dick in her face, and she really doesn't like it. Still, it's a distraction... maybe.

"Oh, please. You couldn't get me in your room even if you actually paid me," she says, and her body language turns away from him, theoretically subconsciously letting him know to tone it down.

"You wanna bet?"

And then his right hand lands (unbefuckinglievably) on her left thigh. It takes a lot of resolve for her not to break character. Damnit, this was a bad idea. She puts on a dry, humorless smirk, looking at him with with her best impression of a serial killer.

"D'you mind?" her tone is sickeningly sweet, and if this asshole has half a brain, he should take a hint. Unfortunately, no suck luck for her tonight.

"I don't at all," he replies, and his fingers every-so-slightly tighten on her almost-skin, beneath the dress. She shifts her body completely, lest she whips a blade out and-

"Sweetheart."

His warm voice, and the light press of his lips to her hairline, is the absolute last thing she is expecting. The pair of arms that snake their way possessively around her waist is the second to the last. He has just placed himself right behind her, causing the man's hand to fly off her thigh as he looks horribly stunned at Jesse.

"Hey, man. Jesse. How you doin'?"

Oh fuck. They know each other?

"Well, I was good up to about three minutes ago, until I saw some poor, unfortunate soul flirting with my girlfriend." She hears him from behind her, and the way he says it, it's almost a little _too_ audacious. Almost.

"You wouldn't happen to see him now, would you?" he adds. The man is utterly flabbergasted, because Beca had been pretty into the whole flirting thing, and he's probably wondering when the hell things started to go south (it went south when she decided that he wasn't fun anymore). In any case, he's looking at her for some explanation, and probably to save his ass from what Beca can only assume to be a murderous look from her "boyrfriend". But all she can do is flash an apologetic little smile, and the man gulps.

"Um, no. Haven't seen him. Excuse me."

The man makes a hasty exit, and it isn't until he is out of sight that Jesse loosens his grip around her waist, careful never to put any pressure around her lower left side, where she's still a bit bruised. He is still flush behind her, one arm (still) around her waist when he takes whatever it is that she's drinking and drains it.

"Don't do that. You're risking the op," he whispers to her, right before he lets her go. And she has nothing more to add, because it's true. She was, and okay, he's right. The sigh that escapes her, coupled with the absence of a retort, is more from admission than exasperation.

(She still rolls her eyes, though. She needed a distraction.)

"How do you know him anyway?" she asks, as he sits beside her, ordering a shot of vodka.

"Armenian relations. He's a sticky middle-man, you don't wanna mess with him. The guy's a climber."

"Ah."

He's not smiling. She's also picking up on strange vibes, so she goes back to business. "What happened at the table?"

"I lost half."

Beca doesn't choke on her drink, because she's better than that. But _fuck, really?_

"What do you mean you lost half?"

"I mean I lost half."

"Well, did he notice? Did you get his attention, at least?"

"Oh, yeah. He now thinks I'm the worse poker player in the world."

"The hell were you thinking?"

She turns to him all too serious now, and he doesn't like where this conversation is going. Not one bit.

"I was thinking that my girlfriend is at the bar with the shadiest Armenian dealer I've ever had the displeasure of doing business with, Beca. I could ask you the same question." He spits out the words, but doesn't turn to look at her once.

She glances around them, tries to gauge any interested parties, following their chat. He's right; what she did could have gotten their cover blown. By, like, a 3% chance, _crying out loud._

"That's not enough to lose the entire play, Jesse. Jesus."

She shakes her head at him, evidently pissed, but professional. She is a professional, she tells herself. So she sets herself down the stool and makes her way towards table number five.

...

Setting herself down comfortably on their potential target's left side, she gives him a warm smile. His lips quirk up into an amused expression, right before she loses interest in him and focuses on the game. (Which makes his lips quirk up even more.) She settles into the game with all the class that she can, in a way that has all the men within a five-foot radius instantly magnetized to her.

"Your bets, miss?" The dealer asks her. She lets out the most exasperated, unamused huff of air that ever did grace planet earth.

"Um, sorry. My boyfriend was a total dick and I-he lost half, so I-"

Their potential target flicks over two maroon chips to her, each one equalling a total of five hundred grand.

Of course, her eyelashes flutter when she looks at him in disbelief. But she's not done yet.

With Jesse's remaining credit, and their potential target's generous donation, she plays the game. She games everyone, in fact. One thing that she learned from C-Rose about poker is that you do not play the game, you play the man. And if there is one thing that she is good at, it is at playing men.

Not to mention her acting skills, which takes her on a whole other level of _game_.

They play for a while, both poker and each other. She throws the target barely-there glances that she knows gets him, without giving anything too much, right away. One glance is all it takes, and then she's back, all focus into her cards and the odds. Which, by the way, are always _ever _in her favor, if she has anything to say about it.

Every once in a while, she would glance back to the bar, and sometimes Jesse would be there. Sometimes, he would not. She doesn't bother with him too much.

When she turns the five hundred grand into 2.5 mil, she knows she has his curiosity. When she turns it into 5 mil, she has his attention.

And then she loses it all. (On purpose.)

Granted, this strategy would not have worked with Jesse, because he can't just shoot their target flirting glances every other call, but now that she's lost what she deems to be an acceptable amount of dough, she bites her lips and shakes her head, smiling to herself. She feels the target's eyes on her. They're practically _groping_ her.

Of course, she doesn't look up at him. She stands up, and goes on her merry way.

(And of course, the target follows her.)

"Excuse me, miss."

She hasn't heard his voice, so when she does, and it feels like molten lava cake dripping out of her ears, she turns around in one sweep.

He stands before her, comprised of a dirty vest, semi-unbuttoned shirt, jeans, untucked, unkempt hair, and a pair of boots that really _shouldn't_ work on a grown man but they do. Plus, a jawline that could cut through at least five inches of steel. She drinks in the sight, and there's a mystery in the smile that is _screaming _'bad idea'. She might be just the _tiniest_ bit turned on.

_Bad fucking idea, Beca. Don't do anything shitty to ruin this play._

"I was wondering if maybe you could repay me with the pleasure of your company," he says, tucking his hands in his front pockets. Again, that move shouldn't work on a grown man with the build of a male model, but it does.

(She is vaguely reminded of Jesse, because that little gesture works on him, too.)

"Oh, I'm sorry, do I owe you anything?"

It's a strict risk. She might come across as too cold, and she might scare him away. But she knows the type. Guys like him want a rabbit chase, not a dear hunt. So the smirk that appears in those mischievous eyes are very much expected.

"I did lend you a million dollars."

"Gave. You gave them to me."

Well then, _miss_," he emphasizes her title with a dangerous hiss, "How about considering a drink with me as a small token of thanks?"

She waits a few antagonizing moments before rolling her eyes and opening her mouth to speak, but...

...

Well, now. He wasn't expecting that.

Beca had just gotten up and left him for the table, no words. She finally got tired of his shit.

He's not going to lie, the emptiness she leaves is a bit melodramatic for an operation. But if he were being completely honest with himself, it's not entirely her fault.

The man she had been flirting with had dangerous liaisons within the Armenian Mob, a crowd that he's not particularly popular with. She didn't know what she was getting into, probably thought the guy was just a random, harmless dud. And if it were any other guy, he would've definitely let it slide (he tells himself).

But that was no ordinary guy. Jesse knows stupid Maskovitch a little too much to know that the guy's got less than half a pea-size of a brain, and he's been wanted for several sexual assault charges, so you can imagine. No girlfriend of Jesse's (fake or not) is going to be flirting with that ass. Really, he was doing Maskovitch a favor. Beca would have had his nuts skinned if he tried to pull anything with her, and the mission would go to shit. They cannot afford for the mission to go to shit.

But when he sees Beca take a seat at the table, throwing charming glances at their potential target, he takes a seat at the far corner of the bar, where he can watch them from an appropriate distance.

It's not jealousy.

Of course not.

Why the fuck would it be?

No. It's not jealousy. It's a zeal to complete this mission, because this is his life. Mission to mission, one operation to another. It's the thrill, and he loves it. He does. He doesn't like the risk, but... okay, maybe he likes the risk. Maybe he likes it a whole lot. Maybe it's what he lives for.

(But Beca's safety is one of the few concerns on his mind tonight. It hasn't been a week since seeing her in that bathtub. She is not in top shape. Also: _Armenians._)

He sees their target toss two chips over to her. Maroon. Five hundred grand. Times two.

Well, fuck. She's _that_ good.

He can't help but smile about this woman. And yes, he's not a sap; he knows his chances with her. She's got more chances at getting a bullet in her heart (which is a very rare case for espionage operatives of their level), than he has of ending up with her.

That doesn't make it illegal in his books to _try_...

There's a small commotion at table five, and he can glimpse the triumph in her eyes as she lays down winning cards, the glimmer in that smile. He has to wonder what her _real_ smile would look like, the one that she's not required to put on for a scene. He thinks it would be wonderful. And now, thinking about it, he makes it his personal mission to see it, one of these days.

And then she bets it all in, and loses.

He can just see her stand up and leave the table, their target following suit and...

Flirting. A lot of it. He can see it in the way the target pockets his hands, or in the small, flickering of her eyes over him.

(He does not feel a hint of jealousy, okay? Not one fucking hint.)

But he does try to look at her, try to find a signal in her eyes of what their gameplan is, right now. She seems to like improvisation, and he'll roll with it because he can. But really. Seriously. Would it kill her to look at him for one fucking second and let him know that?

When she does meet his eyes, a little bit of her charm falls from her face. Only a little, though.

...

"Um, I have... someone with me tonight," she lamely says. Whatever it is that got those words out of her mouth, she crosses her fingers and hopes that her gut instinct (because she blames it all on this stupid gut of hers) would not let her down.

His brows furrow, but it's only a mildly amused expression. _Oh, thank god._

"Well, of course. Gorgeous lady like you, I would expect no less. So how about you bring him, or her, over, and we have a few drinks at the lounge?"

This guy is smooth. She's might even regret knocking him unconscious a bit later, but oh well...

...

He feels her move beside him, perching herself up on one of the stools. He doesn't turn to look. Merely utters, "What happened?"

"He took it. We're in. We'll meet him in his guest lounge for drinks in a while."

He hums his acknowledgement, which irks her a bit. Something is off with him today. It's a little conflicting and muddy and hella annoying, because she can feel him wanting to break that invisible wall between them. She doesn't understand why he doesn't just go right ahead and say it. Whatever _it _is. So she turns to him, elbow carelessly placed over the polished mahogany of the bar.

"I like your suit."

She says it in a way that tells him he's not supposed to pay attention to what the words mean. Instead, her tone implies these words, exactly: _What the fuck, man._

He hears her, and he has to stifle the smile (which would be creepy in this circumstance, because he knows he's been smiling a bit _much_ around her) that threatens to grace his features.

"You were fantastic over there."

"Thanks."

He gives her that adoring look that she hasn't quite placed yet.

Off the bar they go, proceeding to the guest lounge.

He doesn't tell her the reason of his sudden change of disposition. His eyes dart meaninglessly to several corners of the room, recognizing several key people that he wasn't planning on seeing a second time in his lifetime. An arm wrapped around his, and the smell of her perfume tickling his nose, he decides that he has no choice.

She'll hate him for this, but he really doesn't have a choice.

* * *

**AN: **I miss you guys...

So, it's been a month. I really am sorry, but I had to finish the other fic. I won't be leaving this fic any time soon, so I really hope to be able to churn out updates at least once a week. Hold me up to it, so that I can pressure myself.

(And on that note, I have to tell you guys that I do not mind being bothered, and I do not, _ever, _mind long reviews. I would wish to hug you all for that.)

Again, I'll be asking you to suspend your disbelief, because I never know how accurate my stuff is, so I'm sorry for that. Let me know, though! I'm a bit _rusty _with my poker...

Also, I need to set some trigger warnings this early on. The fic will touch on themes that may border on M. Nothing too graphic, and _definitely not_ sexual. But there are serious themes, and I will try to pace the story properly. They won't just jut out of nowhere.

This chapter is more of strictly business, but Beca and Jesse will touch on the kiss in a bit...

Finally, I know I told some of you that the next chapters would be at the Empire State, but things had a mind of their own. Sorry bout that. This fic will most likely be in three parts, hence the label at the top. :) Oh, and I almost forget. Subtle references to: The Hunger Games, Django Unchained, and Suits._  
_

Hope ya'll like it...

(Ps. the FC for their target is Taylor Kitsch. Just because I like FCs.)


	14. Hell's Kitchen

"So, what brings you guys to the Rocky?"

Jesse and Beca enter the lovely, antique-themed lounge of the hotel. To say that the room is top-notch wouldn't even cut it. It is unbelievable and remarkable, Beca thinks. (Jesse thinks that a toddler could finger-paint better than the interior designer.) There are a few other guests, enjoying a few drinks. The man ushers them in, moving over to the liquor table, where an array of what is most definitely a tasteful set of fine alcohols sits. He grabs three glasses. (Because apparently, self-service is all the rage in these exclusive hotels. Good help is always so hard to find.)

"Oh, we're not together," Beca replies, taking the proffered glass from their host.

She's playing it so damn cool, so Jesse doesn't show the least bit of annoyance. But _goddamnit, Beca_. Can't she even be bothered to tell him that she was planning to change their cover, _on the way to the damned lounge_? It was a long-ass corridor that they went through.

"Really? I thought you mentioned a boyfriend at the table," the man asks, balancing three glasses under a stream of what promises to be excellent brandy.

"He's gay," Beca deadpans, nodding her head towards Jesse.

_Oh, what the fuck, Beca._

"Really, now?" The man's face looks absolutely surprised, and a bit amused.

"Well, _duh_," Jesse says, emphasizing the last syllable with a slight eye-roll, and a decidedly feminine flick of the wrist, as he takes the glass. He doesn't flinch. (He and Beca are going to talk about this later.)

"My gaydar must've been off, a while back at the table," the man jests.

"Was it ever even _on_?"

Beca needs to bite her lip. Sassy nerd is sassy.

They sit around the small living space, the sound of live cellos playing Bach's Prelude to Suite No. 1., Jesse crossing his legs more like a woman than even Beca, stealing a glance her way, while she shoots him a funny (and maybe slightly amused) look, enjoying herself way too much. He rolls his eyes. She's not the only one who can pull an impromptu cover.

"In any case, I'm Dan Rivers," their host says, offering his hand.

Bingo. Target acquired.

"Very nice to meet you, Mr. Rivers. I'm Lara," Beca says, taking his hand in both of her small ones, faking a slight, Saxony-German accent. (Which is _hot as fuck_, Jesse thinks. Even if he doesn't appreciate her changing his sexual orientation tonight.)

Dan takers her hands and brings them to his lips, locking their eyes together.

Jesse rolls his eyes in the same, sassy way as before. _Look at this asshole._

"I'm Jesse. That's a double 's' and no 'i' to you," Jesse replies, giving the other man a brief handshake, which might as well have been a finger-snap and head bob. (Beca needs to shut her face, because it's this close to bursting hysterically. _Look at this sassy bitch_.)

"So, if you don't mind my asking, how long have you two been playing the game? Poker aficionados?"

"Oh, years."

"Years and years."

"It's a hit and miss thing, you know?" Jesse offers. He doesn't even need to communicate with Beca to understand where this conversation is supposed to go. "Lara and I, we go way back. She's, like, my best friend. Taught me the whole thing."

"Oh?" Their host looks amused, especially because he was witness to them losing a grand total of around ten million dollars.

"Oh yes. But of course, we're not grand masters. Unlike you." Beca says this with a cheeky grin, from behind her glass, and Jesse can only hope that she's just _that good_ at acting the part. The effect is evident on the sly, embarrassed grin that overtakes the man across from her.

It's a good seven seconds of awkward pause, Jesse counts, that they stare into each other. (_Ugh._)

It is within these seven seconds that Jesse's attention is brought to three men, entering from across the room. Five large, fully-armed, _Armenian _men. Followed by none other than Maskovitch.

Fuck. This really isn't his night tonight.

"Hey, Lara, sweetie, I think I'll leave the two of you for the meantime, since I feel like _such _a third wheel, anyway," he says, getting up and giving her a cheek-to-cheek. She almost doesn't catch the two words that he whispers across the shell of her ear, right before he stands up and walks away.

...

Making her partner gay was not her intention tonight. Their goal is to confront the target (if he really is their target) about the hard drive, in the most effective way possible. But she had let slip that she was with someone tonight, and it's a brief lapse of good judgement, on her part. She had to bring Jesse along, because he was already invited, but she realizes that she can't get to first base with the mission if he thinks she's with someone else.

Plus, Jesse's being a little weird.

So she changes things up a bit, in an effort to get him to lighten up. It feels like someone shoved a broomstick up his ass while she was playing at the table, and it bothers her to no end. (For what it's worth, he plays a _mean_ sassy gay friend.) They would've been able to get to the next part of their play, would've definitely been able to test if their target knew about Martina (that _superskank_) and where she had been.

And then he exits with two words: Ritz Carlton.

This means one of two things: A) Jesse has a weird, completely unfunny sense of humor, or B) he's alluding to the events of their encounter at that hotel. She has a feeling it's the latter.

With that, she continues her socializing with the target, but her eyes take on another level of alertness. It's then that she notices the small security detail, followed by Jesse's friend, that flirty douche. Aw, fuck.

To follow, or not to follow.

It's supposed to be a non-question. Her priority is to finish the play, get the target to spill some information. Knock him out and stick him in the janitor's closet for interrogation, if she has to. That should be her only concern tonight. But it's the little things that get to her. Things like, how Jesse had reacted to the guy at the bar, and how he seemed somber, less than his usually panache for the operation. She doesn't like it.

"And-you okay, sweetheart?"

"I'm good, thanks," she replies, somewhat half-heartedly.

_Oh, fuck it._

"Listen," she tells him, "I'm feeling a bit lightheaded, but I hate to leave you so soon, um..."

"No, I understand. Please. I was thinking of getting back to the tables, anyway."

She gives him her best smile, and prays that he doesn't leave anytime soon.

...

The wind is decidedly _not _blowing in his general direction.

Jesse walks fast across the room, cuts two corners in a flourish, and passes through a "Personnel Only" door somewhere. He's not even sure what part of the hotel he's at, already, but he knows that he's got to get away.

If those men find out that he was with Beca...

Entering several more doors with a confidence so that he doesn't get flagged, he crosses the threshold of the pantry, removes his jacket and unbuttons his collar. It's hot.

He takes off his shirt, and throws his phone down one of the garbage chutes.

The worse possible thing to happen tonight is for the men to associate him with anyone on this operation. That means cutting off all possible ties with anyone in here (getting rid of his phone, and getting rid of Beca). His dealings with the Armenian Mob aren't exactly scrapbook-worthy, and it was his full intent to actually shove Beca into the nearest cabinet just to keep them from seeing her, no matter that she would probably hate him. But now that they've got a chance at the drive, he's not about to mess the entire thing up. This is his problem, and he will deal with it accordingly.

"Hey man! What're you doing here?!" An employee asks.

"Chef called. Asked for some spiced lobsters."

The employee looks a little befuddled, but he lets that one slide. (Trick of the trade #1: You can get away with murder, as long as you've got the confidence to back it up.)

He resigns himself to sitting on a marbled countertop in the empty wing of the kitchen. Shirtless. This is where the circulation is poor, he wagers. It's all steam, and it's the last place that the Mob would look for him.

He'll just have to wait it out.

...

_If I were an egotistical, Triplus operative who likes movies and is a huge dork, where would I go?_

Beca is searching frantically for her partner. Just like old times.

Damnit, they shouldn't have jinxed it.

She's not going to lie to herself that she's worried. Jesse left her with a two words and a cryptic disposition. He's never subtle, but damnit, that was just cruel. Sure, _maybe_ she had it coming for being a slight bitch over at the entertainment suite, but god, she already thought him once almost _dead_, how many times is he going to do this to her again and again?

The pause in her train of thought causes a mild pause in her walk, because she catches herself with a _very wrong _line of thinking about him.

(Was that... did she... _care_? Of course not. Fucking stupid. It's the mission, of course.)

She looks around carefully, trying to imagine his footsteps, his pattern...

He would not have left the building (too risky). He would not have gotten a room (dead end). What he would've done was to walk and walk until his feet took him to...

A forbidden area: Personnel Only.

She goes inside straightaway, pausing only to look over her shoulders.

...

Jesse uses his shirt to wipe the beads of sweat off his neck. He would have removed his pants by now, but he has decided that, in the terribly unfortunate circumstance that the Mob does catch him here, he would like to have his pants on. (He doesn't want them to get any crafty torture ideas.)

So he tries to keep his mind away from how hot this part of the kitchen is, and instead, tries to keep his mind on their operation.

He looks at his watch: 0053

He passes a hand on his face, and it makes the droplets drip down his chin. It's _that fucking hot_. Stupid ventilation system.

Again, mind off the heat.

He supposes that this area of the kitchen would open at around four, which hopefully gives him three hours to wish that the Armenians would not think that he's still here. But most of all, he hopes to god that they don't direct their attention to Beca.

Maskovitch saw her with him, but Jesse is banking on that pea-sized brain of his not to relay that crucial information to the Mob. And he also hopes that Beca gets the hint, because if they try to get to her in order to get to him...

Shit is going to fly.

Yikes. Maybe it's better to think about the heat, after all...

But Beca's smart. That much, he knows. Why, she was smart enough to flirt with the target and gain his attention, and she was smart enough to keep flirting with him all the way to the lounge. Then she makes him _gay_, (which, let's be clear, isn't anywhere _near_ the jurisdiction of_ fucking sensible_) but she's not stupid. Mean, maybe. Unbelievable. Unpredictable. Irksome. God, she is _so irksome_. (Not to mention: _endlessly annoying_ and _infinitely confusing_. Trying to understand her is like trying to speak finger-mash.) But she's smart enough...

And then he hears the sound of a pair of Loubutins, clicking across the linoleum.

...

The first sensation that hits Beca a few more doors through is the heat. A whole lot of heat. And she's wearing this delicate dress. She gives herself exactly five minutes here, just five minutes to look around the corners and-

"Jesus christ, Jesse," she breathes, seeing him sitting on the counter.

"Bec?"

"What the hell?" she approaches him as he sets himself down.

"Is the play done?" he asks, gathering up the soaked clump of white, which she can only assume to be his shirt. _His shirt_... which should be on his body... _his body_... his completely bare torso. With the rippling pectorals and the abdominal lines and the happy trail (more like happy _freeway_), the whole nine yards. (_Do. not. stare, woman_.) But, wait a minute...

"Why are you naked?"

The upward turn of his lips is a little too smug for comfort. "It's hot."

_It's... hot? Really?_

He can see the strange expressions passing her face, one by one. It's endearing.

"Never mind. What are you doing here?"

"It's a long story," he starts, slapping his shirt against his back to swipe away the heat, "one that I would very much like to share with you once we're back at HQ, sipping maybe some iced lemonade, talking about the next operatio-"

"I don't have time for this, Jesse. Tell me what's going on. Why are you here?"

His eyes catch the annoyance, which means only one thing. He freezes.

"Wait... Beca, did you complete the play?" He's too serious now. Too, too serious.

"The fuck do you mean? You left me with two words and I didn't know whe-"

"You mean you _left the target?!_"

It hits Beca with such a force, that maybe, just maybe, she had miscalculated. Maybe he's not under duress, and maybe she had been unnecessarily... worried.

"What?"

He passes a hand over his face in reply, and sighs.

"Did you, or did you not, finish the play? Did he tell you-"

"No. No, he hasn't." It comes out calm, barely a whisper. She bites the inside of her cheek. What is he implying?

And then a look of apprehension crosses his expression and he's crossed a line in her books.

"I am _so sorry_," she adds, and it's slathered with a shittonne of humorless sarcasm, "but I didn't think you left me with _two fucking words_ to complete the play by myself. I should get back to that."

"Yeah, you do that."

At those words, Beca's expression turns into a blank page. She quickly turns around.

"Bec-"

"I'll see you in HQ," she throws over her shoulder, leaving him more confused as ever, if that was even possible.

...

Fuck. Fuckity fuck.

He regrets it the moment those four words leave his mouth. For a highly-trained, covert operative, he should learn to control himself when he's around her.

But a part of him is really pissed, and the part that's supposed to be in control is already working overtime not to show it.

She arrives with a dress and is the most pleasant company in the world, and then flirts with a guy at the bar (Maskovitch? _Seriously?_), and then flirts with the target, barely throwing him an understanding glance, or anything. She risked the operation once tonight, and she shouldn't even be here. He should be with Jessica. Bubbly Jessica. And then the target, who happens to look like a fucking _cowboy_ gets her attention more than him, her _partner_. He's a highly-trained, covert operative, and sure, he can be a professional. Hell, he's about as professional as they come. But he is not Ghandi, for fuck's sake.

Not to mention that the longer they stay here, the bigger the risks to _her. _He won't be able to do anything if the entire Mob decides to put a target on her back _for being associated with him. _He needs this over with. The clock is ticking, and he has grounds to be upset.

But he still regrets it.

...

_Asshole._

Beca chastises herself for losing sight of her purpose tonight. _Fucking idiot, Mitchell. What in the hell were you thinking? _A part of her wants to leave him here and now. Leave him to whatever it is that he's hiding from, which he didn't even bother to tell her.

_Fucking asshole._

She walks with an indignant gait, pushes the doors rather brusquely, not caring. Never caring. Caring is a disadvantage.

Her heightened emotional state (which she does not realize) puts her in an mental state that keeps her from paying heed to her surroundings. So she does not notice an armed man, looking curiously in the direction from whence she came, and catching sight of the swinging "Personnel Only" doors that she leaves behind.

...

"Hey."

She plops right across Dan Rivers as he is about to take a sip of Jenssen Arcana Cognac, a 100-year-old brandy around the net worth of five human souls. Still, she is able to make him forego his sip.

"Well, hello," he drawls. It _is_ sexy._  
_

"I'm so sorry for that-"

He waves her off, and hands her his glass. For the first sip.

She takes it. Now this is some good alcohol, alright.

It takes her five glances, four questions, and three "accidental" brushes against his leg, executed within a total of 54 minutes, to get what she wants out of him. She twists the conversation to the women in his life, eventually getting to the subject of a young artist he met, from Prague (Martina, aka Bitch the Great).

"So... when did you guys meet?" she slows her speech to give the impression that she has a suitable amount of alcohol in her system.

"A few weeks ago."

"Where?"

He pauses, and she wonders if he's getting a hint of what she's doing here. She just asked her final question. Answer this, and the play is over. But instead of calling her out, he hiccups.

"London," he drawls, and she notices that it's a bit slower than her own speech.

Well, that seals it. London... they can work with that.

She cannot wait to get out of here and leave her partner stewing in the kitchen. But this guy across from her, _Daniel Rivers_, is a fine specimen of the rare, talented gentleman. Unlike that douche that she wants nothing to do with. So what if she wants to have a little fun tonight?

He's looking at her with those eyes, practically undressing her already anyway. Might as well.

"My room or yours?" she says, taking him aback before he's even able to utter a flabbergasted "what?"

"That was a rhetorical question. I'm not checked in."

The delicious little smile that crawls to his mouth is screaming 'bad idea'. _Very bad idea, Beca._

But instead of listening to her gut, she rationalizes. The play is over, so technically, this "bad idea" does not constitute a shitty move that might ruin their operation. So, really. She should have fun.

(Jesse can go to hell.)

* * *

**AN: **Yes? No? Reviews are always loved. :)


	15. Harder to Breathe

Physicians and morticians will tell you that there are three ways to strangle someone. Non-recreational stranglers will tell you that there are only one of two purposes for doing so.

The trachea is a small tube, around 1.9 centimeters in diameter, the side of your average penny. It fits right inside your neck, connecting your mouth to your lungs, connecting the rest of your body to the oxygen in the air. Strangulation happens when the area around this crucial passageway is constricted. With a rope, a rolling pin, a hand, the weight of your own body as your feet find no ground. Anything that can put 5 square-inch pounds of pressure around your neck to stop the blood flow in your carotid artery, near your adam's apple.

Contrary to popular belief, it's not about a lack of oxygen. It's a lack of blood. They call it hypoxia. Cutting off the blood supply to the brain is like shearing a live wire, bit by bit, until the cord is too thin to provide electricity to the computer. The screen flickers, and the machine dies.

Physicians and morticians will also tell you that this method is mostly employed by men, against women. It's one of the more painful reminders in this world that sometimes, life is unfair.

.:.

* * *

Whoever invented buttons can go to hell.

Right now, all that Beca wants is to taste the skin of this man, but there's way too much leather and plaid and lace in between them, and yes, okay, things are fast and hot and hormones everywhere, but _damnit_, these buttons.

To say that it's a little frantic is a bit of an understatement.

He's already fisting her hair (which would have garnered any other man a testicle punch, but she's a little more lenient this time) and she's trying to suck the sense out of his face and trying to undo his layers on top of trying to get their tangle of legs to move in the general direction of his room (multitasking is still a thing) on the fourth floor but there's just an unfortunate amount of alcohol in his system that makes this slightly more difficult for her than for him.

"Key... key card..." she manages to say, albeit a bit breathlessly (and in spite of the hand that's trying to dislocate her butt cheek from the way he's groping it). She barely elicits a questioning "mmpphh" from him, muffled into the skin of her collarbone. (Men are such _boneheads_.) She feels around for his pockets. Aha. There it is.

"Dude, can't you wait?!" she huffs as she swats his hand away while trying to place the damned key card right side up when he tries to rip off her dress to get to her boob. (It's an expensive dress, and it is _not_ getting ripped tonight.)

Finally, the light above the key card turns green. Go time.

She pushes on the knob of the door with such a force while turning back around to vacuum the living shit out of his mouth and she's about to tackle him to the carpet inside, too. This is her, having fun.

But she forgets the bad idea that she's trying to accomplish when her ears, one of her five, fully-trained senses, picks up a sound that she has become unwittingly familiar with.

...

He needs to make this right.

He needs to make this right because he was _such a dick._

He got caught up in the heat of the moment (and it's tragic just how _literal_ that is) to realize that Beca had left the target to go find him. _Him_. She wasn't being stupid, she was being worried. _For him_. It takes him twenty seconds of harsh reality (thinking about what would happen if they _did _actually find her) to realize it. Stupid heat.

It took him four words too late to obliterate what small semblance of her good graces he was on. Shit. He really needs to make this right.

But looks like he won't be able to, if the heavy footfalls from every corner of this confounded area of the kitchen are any indication.

Crap.

...

She's barely closed the door behind them and her current fling has barely reached for her zipper when she hears words that sound vaguely Middle-Eastern.

Fuck. Armenians.

And then another sound... an accented version of the same dialect...

Fuck. _Jesse._

She can hear them through the slit of their still-open door, and she stops the target's eager (too eager) hand right before he tries to close it.

"Something wrong?" He stops placing hickies on her neck.

She hears them, and her mind goes on overdrive...

_Going up the stairs, walking, four people, Jesse, fifteen feet out, duress..._

Duress.

She finally turns to look at her supposed one night stand. Now decidedly her _ex_-one night stand.

_Jesse, you bastard. What have you gotten yourself into now..._

She rolls her eyes because she can. There goes her plans for a lovely evening with her good-looking manmeat. (Along with her plans to never speak to Jesse ever again.)

On the pretense of freshening herself up, she goes inside the bathroom, where she strips down to her underwear and uses the target's oversized shirt (which she had pulled off of him using her teeth) to hide what skin she can. It's a great thing that she had texted Chloe right before she had let herself be pulled up to this fourth floor, because she wouldn't want to have to take care of her disposable phone and purse (which was _Hermes_. And she had every intention of getting back to it, too. Jesse will have to pay for that). She loses no time, because she may be a cold-hearted machine of an operative, but she isn't about to let her distaste for Jesse taint her professionalism. Whatever happens to your partner, that's on you.

From the bathroom, she goes outside. Literally, outside. She crawls out the window and onto the ledge, leaving the expensive, could-be-working-for-Calvin-Klein man in the other room, waiting for her even though she doesn't plan on coming back. It's funny how the first thing that crosses her mind when she steps out onto that thin strip of building is that she's been in this situation before, that night she had met Jesse, when he basically _stole_ from her, starting this _entire_ snowball of events...

Ugh. That man is the _bane_ of her existence.

...

He knows that they won't hesitate to pull the trigger beneath all that leather, so Jesse complies, making small talk along the way as he is led up the five flights of stairs by three men with whom he had been so unfortunately blessed to have worked with, once upon a time.

"(Hey there, Yuri. How's your mom?)" he asks a huge bald man in Armenian.

"(Better than you, Swanson.)"

"(Yeah, well, say hi to her for me. I'm sure she misses me.)"

He thinks it's actually pretty neat that Maskovitch had been around them, because the patience of his three prison guards must have been stretched pretty thin even before they found out about Jesse. This gives him the confidence to make endless quips about their mothers and grandmothers and sisters and hairy girlfriends.

But of course, he's not just doing it for laughs. He needs to maintain a steady emotional cool to try to figure himself a way out of the six feet of shit he's in...

The four of them enter room 0512, and Jesse is running out of available options. They sit him down, and wait. Just waiting, while Jesse is thinking five steps ahead, because rooms are dead ends, and these are no ordinary hitmen. The race is almost over, he can almost hear Padma telling him to pack his knives and go, and Tyra, as she tells him that he is no longer in the running to become America's Next Top-

Two knocks from the door, and his heart speeds up with adrenaline.

The subsequent voice, and his heart drops.

"Jesse! This is Kayla! You know, you left me in our room," Beca shouts through the door, her voice coming across casual. Cool. Professional even in this really, _really_ bad situation that she has no idea she is getting into.

Shit. _Worse fucking timing in the world, Bec._

"I saw you coming up the stairs with those guys, don't lie to me," Beca says, her tone laced with a feigned playfulness that _kills_ him, given their situation.

One of the men nod to Jesse, and he's immediately shoved in front of the door, the rest of them clearing the line of sight, the solid of the barrel against Jesse's lower back. They chain the door, and then Jesse opens it, only to be greeted by Beca, standing in her underwear, with Mr. Cowboy's wrinkled shirt wrapped around her, barely covering an inch of her legs.

But now's not the time to think about that.

...

Slowly, the door parts, and they're standing in front of each other. She starts.

"Where've you been?" _What's happening?_

"Nothing, I'm just... (he feels the gun dig into his back) tired. This is my room. I'm sorry I left you, but you didn't have to follow me." _Go. Now._

"Oh? Okay. Do you need anything? A friend, maybe? (she reaches over and plays with the hem of his open shirt) For the night?" _Do you need help?_

"I'm good, thanks. You should probably get some rest, too." _I need you to go. Now._

Their implied communication would have worked, and Jesse would have been successful in making sure that Beca stays the hell away from this fuckup he's in, but unfortunately, the elevator dings, and opens right behind her.

There's Maskovitch. The stupid fucker.

In a crazy little panic (induced by what Jesse believes is now a _half-pea _sized brain), Maskovitch grabs Beca by the waist and tries to stifle her little shriek, while simultaneously trying to bring her inside the room as Jesse looks on with horror. The door is closed and reopened, the men behind Jesse are alerted, and all goes to shit.

...

They are conversing in Armenian, trying to figure out what the fuckery is happening and what the hell Maskovitch was thinking when he thought it was a good idea to alert a civilian that they were holding Jesse hostage.

Because they think Beca is a civilian. (And Beca isn't about to correct them on that.)

Beca and Jesse are ordered to sit their asses down on the couch and not move while the four men converse and berate their idiot member. She looks at him, and he at her.

For once, she doesn't understand that expression. The one that he's giving her now borders on... is that disappointment? Regret? She doesn't know, and it's a little bit upsetting, so she tries to communicate in Morse, tapping her index on the arm of the couch.

_"Tell me."_

He replies in kind. _"You should go."_

She needs to stop herself from shooting him a glare. Well, now.

Beca can't help but be... peeved. That he would think that she would just so carelessly leave him to these unnamed men right after completing their play. She had already texted Chloe, and the Bellas should be here shortly, along with perhaps the Trebles. Backup is coming, and it's just a matter of taking care of these four. She can roll with that.

But when his eyes meet hers, and are telling her the same thing (_Go_), it would seem that he has made it his goal to continually _cross the line_ tonight.

It's the worse insult to her tradecraft for him to think that she would be so affected by their little spat as to do something irrational, especially when she is practically stripped down to _almost nothing_, knocking on the door of his captors, to see what the hell it is that's going on that he didn't even bother to tell her. And now, he feels like he has the right to shoo her off because he doesn't need her help?

Ungrateful little shit.

...

He can hear the men discuss Beca's situation in shushed tones, and he wishes Beca could speak Armenian, he wishes that he has the time to make her understand.

But he doesn't.

So he makes it his first and foremost priority to make this right, and taps a question to her:

_"Do you trust me?"_

But if he's reading her expression correctly (and she's not looking at his fingers), then she's not taking any of his earnest pleads for her to get the hell out of here. The finger that taps lightly on the sofa is also a hint:

_"Fuck you."_

And with that obscenity...

...

Almost like the Ritz. Almost.

It's a step by step process. In this world, one of the best skills to master is the art of action and reaction. So when Beca pulls the gun from one of the unassuming men and threatens to blow off his parts (and not in the good sense) into teeny tiny pieces on the carpet, Jesse, of course, has no choice but to comply and react to his civilian girlfriend's sudden murderous rampage, and it doesn't take him or her twenty seconds to get into an advantageous position, both of them with guns on two of the members, the third armed man trying to decide which of them to point at, and Maskovitch (stupid fucker) running like a little girl eighteen seconds ago.

It's a few more minutes and a few more Armenian bad words for them both to finally incapacitate all three men.

The thing about being a spy is that there are certain automatic emotional lockdowns that occur whenever confronted with a certain level of duress or adrenaline. Handling the possibility of having to shoot another person's kneecaps is easier said than done, especially because, for great operatives, it shouldn't even come to violence. But Beca and Jesse are left with no choice.

She has just finished recoiling her hand from the hard hit of the gun against a man's skull, the man falling unconscious, when she sees Jesse finish with the same. Both of them are panting (and she's still in her fucking _underwear_, godssakes) but there is a sense of relief that floods her when she sees all three men, out cold. She uncocks the gun, while Jesse mirrors her actions, emptying the weapon of bullets.

The automatic emotional lockdown fades a bit, making way for this strange feeling she has, and it's a little weird, sure, that she just enjoyed owning three, big-ass men at least twice her size. With Jesse, just like that fateful night.

Without her consciousness' permission, breathless and relieved, she smiles at him.

...

He feels the sudden sting in his heart at the intangible beauty that he witnesses, for a split-second.

...

Beca immediately realizes what she's done (fuck. She is supposed to be mad at him.) and she tries to take it back, her features plateauing into the unamused expression that she has overworn all these years.

"It's in London, by the way," she says, as a last ditch effort to kill the stupidity she feels at that smile.

"What is?"

"Martina. Last he saw her."

She shifts her eyes away from him, focusing, instead, on slightly kicking each of the unconscious men on the ground. She sniffs and reflexively passes the back of her hand by her nose.

Blood.

(A very small, pinprick moment of terror glances her mind, from memories of a few nights ago, but she shoves it away.)

Jesse is immediately next to her, and without saying a word, he tilts her head up and makes her look up at the ceiling (she was gonna do it anyway), a hand pinching her nose lightly, and his other hand gentle against the back of her neck. (It's the weirdest shit, Beca thinks to herself, and decides that this man is a complete and utter weirdo.)

"Is that... the target's shirt?" he suddenly says, taking her aback. It's laced with something odd and... displaced, but her only thought is that he is s_uch a weirdo._

"Shuddup." The nasal sound of that is not what she was going for.

It's a few moments when he releases her to tear a corner of the shirt he's wearing (hanging open, displaying an annoyingly _distracting_ view of his upper body). He hands her the piece, for her nose.

"Thanks." _So weird._

He doesn't reply, he doesn't even look at her.

The thing is, like all things with him, she should have seen it coming. But she didn't.

There are a number of factors that came into consideration. Perhaps it's the fact that she had just performed intense physical activity, and she's a little laid back, still trying to catch her breath. Or maybe it's the blood from her nose, or the small relief she feels when she realizes that it's over, and it's a success. She may be the best at what she does, but she's not perfect.

Not when a strong arm suddenly finds its way around her neck as she feels the tight suffocation a little too late to react or do anything about it except fall straight into natural, untrained, human reactions that have her panicking and flailing. She vaguely remembers Chloe, telling her about how... blood...

But she doesn't complete the thought, because her legs have stopped flailing, and her nails lose their bite on the arm vice-gripping her neck. The arm that belongs to her operational partner.

She stops moving, and Jesse loosens his grip.

* * *

**AN: **Jesse kills Beca. The end.

LOL. I'm not _that _weird. And this is the part where I apologize, because for those of you nitpicky enough to know the details of what's going to happen, I would request that ya'll leave yer logic at the door (just like in every single crazy-ass chapter I come up in this). I tried to do my research, but logic can only go so far. (Credits: Intro is inspired by Chuck Palahniuk, btw.) Also, action scenes are not my forte, but it had to happen. sorry.

Also, to _wheresmywings _(and everyone else): I did mention that Beca's issue is not sexual. But that doesn't mean that things can't get sexy...

Sometimes, I just wish I knew what I was thinking when I came up with this story...


	16. Heavy in Your Arms

Misunderstandings are prevalent in the spy world.

One would think that, in such a profession that required an astonishing amount of attention to detail, misunderstandings would be near eliminated. However, it's not the attention to detail that keeps operatives from _honest-to-god-I-swear-it-wasn't-me_ misunderstandings (or even the _oh-shit-I-didn't-know-he-was-going-to-die_ misunderstandings). These gaping, logical holes often happen from a lack of seeing the big picture.

But sometimes, they are necessary. And deliberate.

.:.

* * *

With care, Jesse loosens his grip around Beca's neck.

It takes him fifteen seconds after she passes out to carry her small frame right outside, to bring her body to the room next to the room across from theirs. (He had seen it wasn't kept locked as he was brought up the room. He remembers details like this when he really has to.)

And right now, he really has to. For Beca.

He lays her inside the bathtub there. He wagers he only has around thirty seconds, forty tops. But that doesn't stop him from hesitating right before he closes the door on her. Because she is unconscious, she doesn't feel the gentle press of his lips on her forehead, nor does she feel his hand brushing the wild strands of hair away from her face.

She certainly doesn't hear him whisper "I'm sorry" against her skin, and she isn't able to catch the genuine sincerity in his voice, right before he exits the bathroom. Even now, he can already hear frantic footsteps and some very angry tones, on the way up the stairs. He leaves the room as inconspicuously as possible, and just in the nick of time. The elevators open, and he's standing in the hallway, hands immediately up and devilish grin spread a little too thickly on only one side of his mouth.

"What took you so long?" he says to the mini army that greets him.

The first three men that they had leveled was a sampler. This is the main course.

He doesn't put up a fight.

...

Beca awakes around two minutes later, brain slighted with a memory... of being strangled... by...

She forces herself to breathe, tries to focus as her brain regains enough oxygen to function like a normal, self-respecting operative. Fuck, where is she? Bathtub... Bathroom... She sits up slowly, puts her hand to her forehead as if that would help her regain the alertness that is glaringly missing from her right now. And then it hits her like a terrible plague, that her operational partner had just locked her neck and choked her.

Jesse choked her.

She closes her eyes. She places her hands over her face, between her and the world. For a moment.

Five seconds. She tells herself to let it all in for five seconds. And then she will resume thinking about what got her here and how she just got played (_again_... ish) by this man. But first, five seconds. Her instinct tells her something's not right, despite her emotions. Still. Five seconds.

1... The sound of the ventilation is humming inconspicuously against the background of her

2... thoughts about Jesse, who was in the hot kitchen earlier when she saw him. He had told

3... her to complete the play. Which she did. And then she told him it was in London; the next

4... step would be to go there. So he choked her to get a head start. Because she was so stupid

5... as to have disregarded that possibility. That possibility that he would do such a thing...

Five seconds to wallow in a strange mix of emotions that she has become painfully familiar with, once upon a time in Russia. She's not even sure what to call it anymore. Maybe it's pain, hurt, anger, betrayal, or all of the above. Doesn't matter what it's called, but it has five seconds.

She is still for a lot longer than five seconds, though.

The three other Bellas find her in a state. She still has her hands over her face. She is tired. Still sitting in the tub, it took Chloe, Jessica, and Stacie eight minutes, forty-three seconds to find her. She hasn't moved. She was counting. Ever counting the factors and the leads and the steps. Always, counting.

There's something not right.

...

Jesse is quiet in the trunk. Every little hump on the road, and he hits his head against something hard, right behind him. Sure, it's a little stuffy, but he's had worse. Hell, Benji, their tech, had once been _FedExed_ to Georgia in a box, so really. Jesse has no grounds to complain.

He's counting the the times he swings backwards and forwards and upwards and downwards, from the inertia.

Things went well back at that hotel. Well, as good as they could have gotten, at least. The Mob didn't find Beca, just as he had thought. They did a sweep of the place, and they had assumed that whoever the woman is, she had run off. No doubt. Maskovitch (Jesse is going to _kill_ that little fucker) had alerted them of the woman that Jesse was with, but they can't get to Beca. He made sure of it.

Then again, neither can he. Ever.

And yes, it sucks. Hell, "sucks" doesn't even cut it. He knows that, whatever it is that they had, is ashes. Strangling her should, for all intents and purposes, destroy what little chance he had at getting to know the badass that is Beca, the Bella. She's probably thinking of fifty different ways to kill him right now.

Left turn, right turn, stop light. Sixty seconds, and... green. He jerks forward, his nose almost hitting the carpet lining of the trunk. It smells powdery. It smells like black.

Or, and this is just pure conjecture, she's hurt and never wants to see him ever again. But that's the whole point. He knows her to be stubborn (greatest understatement of anything ever), and she's a professional, just like him. She would feel it her responsibility, if anything happens to him, just as he would for her. He had no choice. It's the sacrifices in this line of work; that she can't ever know what he's done, and where he is, for her own good.

Highway. Nice. No bumps or sounds, just loud honks fading into the horizon. And the occasional swishing of police car sirens. Looks like they're heading out of state.

Donald, Bumper, the rest of the gang should be halfway back to Triplus HQ by now, and Beca would be on the way back to Bellatorum HQ as well. Most likely seething at him, thinking he had crossed her. Thinking he had left her there to die, and had gone to London ahead. This would no doubt renew the hellish fire between their two organizations, but oh well. Jesse did what he could, and he's never going to see her again anyway. Should she witness him in the state of rage that he deserves for strangling her, _god help him._

He shifts his leg a bit to get to the itch on his calf, so he can distract himself from thinking of what he had just lost. There's not a lot of legroom lying in a trunk next to several pounds of C-4.

...

The ride back to Los Angeles is nothing short of anything. It was a long-ass drive, even with Beca's road rage and Jessica's little prayers every right turn. Stacie and Chloe look at each other, their eyes speaking volumes of _not good_.

For some reason, Beca, Stacie, Jessica, and Chloe are unable to contact Aubrey at HQ. So when they get there, Beca is out of the vehicle and on a ruler-straight line to presumably get on to the next case in London, before the Triplus get there (fat chance). She heads straight to the third floor, where she is greeted by a frantic set of Bellas scurrying everywhere, papers, computers showing a myriad of lines and dots, and everyone is in a panic. Jessica is talking to Ashley about several documents, Lilly is typing at the speed of sound, everyone is in a flurry.

Even the Trebles.

Beca is caught off guard (this really needs to _stop_ happening) by Donald, who is carrying a mocha latte, power-walking across the threshold of the third floor with a pen in his ear and a relieved look on his face when he sees the girls finally come in. He doesn't stop though, heads on straight into Lilly's little computer corner to discuss 0s and 1s.

Oh, look. A Treble.

Everyone is this goddamned building should thank the Armenian Mob men she had just wasted a few hours ago, because she had just spent considerable energy taking them down. Otherwise, she would most definitely-

Oh, _christ._

Trebles. Everywhere. Every-goddamned-where.

(It is at this point that Stacie and Jessica make the decision to evacuate the general path of destruction that Beca would leave.)

Beca bursts through the glass doors of the conference room with nothing but an oversized shirt barely covering her legs, and absolutely _nothing_ covering her homicidal expression. She takes one look at Bumper (who is in the room, _beside Aubrey_. What in the actual fuckery.), and then redirects her death glare at Aubrey, who takes a sharp intake of breath.

"It's the CIA," Aubrey says, before Beca has the chance to say anything.

This changes the temperature of Beca's blood from the fiery pits of hell to the rigid cold of rigor mortis.

"What do you mean," she manages as a barely-there huff, and she suddenly feels so tired.

"Beca-"

"Save it. What's going on?"

Aubrey gives the explanation of how the CIA are hot on their tails, and possibly more close to the drive than they are. Photos, meetings with Martina, the whole thing came to them from reliable sources, as with a sudden reorganization of priorities. And the Triplus are staying, to save time and resources.

"We need to work with the Triplus, Beca. That's why they're still here."

Beca turns to look at Bumper, who shrugs.

"Hey, I don't like it as much as the next male in this estrogen-infested place. Hell, if it were up to me, we would be catching on the next lead already-"

"You mean you'd be in London by now," Beca dryly says, directing her attention to the scattered documents laying flat on the table, not bothering with him, or anyone else. They must've shipped Jesse first thing, right after he had left her to die.

"London?"

The room is quiet and it's an unpleasant kind of quiet. The kind of quiet that comes before a shitstorm.

"What about London?" Donald asks, turning to her. She has everyone's attention now, but she merely huffs and rolls her eyes.

"Ask Jesse." It comes out grating.

"What are you talking about? He's not with you?"

She looks up at Donald, and that is not the expression she is expecting.

Oh, fuck.

...

It's one cold case after another. One lead exhausted after the next, and Beca is losing hope. Looking for him, even using the Bellatorum's resources, had yielded nothing but his love for movies (which she already knew) and his last name (which she isn't even supposed to know).

She needs to find him.

Their little dance is prematurely halted, and within the next three days, Beca has had enough time to understand what's been going on, her brain working on parallel between finding him and understanding what happened that night.

She can count, okay. So she counted the factors. And it's not nice.

So when she wakes up in the dead of night with a nightmare, it isn't the same one that she's used to. It's him, with the Armenian Mob. Him in a prison. Him lying in a pool of blood. Him with his ribs strapped to that contraption that she glimpsed when she saw Lilly watching Saw III. It's always him, because she is responsible for what happened to him.

She figures it out even when (and she knows this) he didn't want her to.

...

FRIDAY, THE HARMONICS HOTEL (LAS VEGAS): 1354

It's two in the afternoon. The Harley stops right in front of the abandoned club, the same one she couldn't face last week. The area isn't as noisy as it is in the middle of the night. The bright lights aren't on. The sun has the spotlight at midday. Buildings are quiet.

Beca disembarks, her messy bun getting even messier when she removes her helmet. She has five piercings on her right ear, seven on the left. All of them have studs and earspikes.

It takes her a moment to stare at the building in front of her. During that mission, it had terrified her, because the nightmares had come back, and were fresh last week. It still terrifies her to an extent today. But she has no other Bella to exchange with right now, and this isn't exactly an Aubrey-sanctioned mission. It's not even an Aubrey-approved mission.

Aubrey doesn't even know where Beca is.

Nobody does.

Not even Fat Amy, Beca's closest friend, [who had left with a text to Aubrey: _sry Bree, I have IBS (irritable Bumper syndrome)_] knows where she is. Beca is off the grid today. This is the definition of falling off the edge of the earth (as though spies like her ever even lived _on_ the common earth in the first place). But the CIA is sniffing them out with the drive, and it's too risky to focus on anything other than making sure the scumbag agency is off their tracks. The Bellatorum and Triplus priority number one is the drive, and keeping the CIA from the stench of illegal, elite espionage activity that is their organizations.

But Beca hates institutions, so screw that. She has her own priorities.

She figures it out three days after Jesse decided to vanish into thin air. The Triplus were supposed to be long gone from the Bellas HQ by the time she came back from Nevada and getting strangled, but they were still there. Still breathing. Still looking attractive enough to get on Beca's nerves. (It's the hair. She doesn't understand how they can collectively have _such nice hair_.)

Then she talks to Donald, and something's up.

It was the way he freaked out when they found out Jesse wasn't with them. Donald, and the rest of the Trebles at that operation in Las Vegas, had called it a night when the target was found; Bellas stayed behind. It would make sense that Jesse would head back to HQ with Beca. So, everyone is surprised.

But she asks Donald again about Jesse the next morning, and why the Triplus wasn't looking for their member.

"Eh. That guy can take care of himself," he tells her, taking a sip of his mocha latte.

Wrong answer. Inconsistent answer. If there's one thing that Beca knows, it's inconsistencies. The little, logical holes that people forget to consider. Like that kiss.

Jesse kissed her, when he had no grounds to. In a midnight madness of over-analyzation, that one kiss gave it all away.

Which is why she knows that him strangling her to get ahead in the game will never work. He's not that kind of guy. Unfortunately. He's a dork, nerd, weirdo. But not evil. He wouldn't do that. She knows he wouldn't do that. But she guesses he didn't expect her to realize this. He should really give her more credit.

So now, it's all a matter of finding the Armenian Mob, because it's either they took Jesse that night, or life imitates art and Jesse really is gay and has gone off to live his sassy life under the radar. Right. And Beca is the actual Queen of England.

She takes a deep breath and crouches at a manhole near the wall. She gives it a tap. And then three more.

"Password."

She tries not to, but she has to roll her eyes at that.

"Madonna."

The manhole opens, and she is greeted by a ladder descending into darkness. Aw, fuck. Here goes.

...

The first thing that hits her is the smell. That, and the female hand slapping her ass.

Ugh. The Harmonics.

The hotel is somewhere on the other side of the basement. Beca is glad her expectations are not met; she was expecting tiny spaces and not enough breathing oxygen, but it's nice to have a wide-open space in the basement. It keeps the horrible memories away. Not to mention, girls.

Girls everywhere. At least, she thinks they're girls. Well, they have boobs.

Other than their mammary glands, the people that littered the little underground bar are a different breed altogether. A very badass breed, surely. Shaved heads, earspikes and earholes, metal, engine grime, and a whole lot of earth colors, this isn't half as bad. Beca feels rather at home. Because she kind of... is. But but not everyone knows that, so a lot of them give her the stinkeye. Which is, whatever. Newbies.

"I'm looking for Barb," she tells the sexy little thing guarding the curtained section, barely fifteen even though she looks at least twenty-one. Beca can gauge ages pretty well.

"Who're you?"

"An old friend."

The girl scoffs. Beca is not amused.

"Oh, yeah?" It's meant to insult her, and she wants to slap this bitch to Monday.

"Yeah."

It's deliberate, that tone in her voice. People have subconscious, automatic response modes for those unnamable hints. That's what makes Beca so damned good. Lower the tone, slow it down, make it seem like you're not even trying, and you'll have everyone's subconscious wired to your will.

The little girl tries to hide a small swallow, before proceeding behind the curtains. She comes back outside to usher Beca through the magical red curtains of doom. Ugh. Barb has the most annoying penchant for dramatics.

And there she is. Barb, sitting behind a long desk with two of her goonies, legs perched. Looking like a bored, female Simon Cowell at X-Factor, a poor soul before her who is determined to make it into her merry band of misfits. Looks like auditions today.

Barden dropouts, aka those who feel like the spy game is all about leather jackets and shades and exploding ballpoint pens and "being cool", those who don't have the skill or the drive to put in the effort to train, usually make it to subpar groups, like the BU Harmonics. Back when she was a freshman (in the far corner of her memories), she had struck up a little mutual understanding with Barbara and the Harmonics, what with her skin art and multiple studs. That was before they had changed their HQ to here, this underground little hole. Beca doesn't like concrete, or anything underground. She prefers hanging by curtains outside windows.

But she's not here to talk about her.

"Barb."

"Beca."

Barb jerks her head towards the curtains, and everyone exits.

"Still running with the Bellas, I see. How's the career? CIA still on to you? I heard you lost the drive."

If that was meant to be insulting, Beca doesn't show it.

"Career's fine. At least I have one. How're your tits?"

Yes, she went there. _Barb looks pissed_ is an understatement.

"What do you want?" Barb spits it out.

"Information."

Barb scoffs. It's expected. Insulting her boobs and then expecting information? Not Beca's best gameplan.

"Like that's ever gonna happen," Barb brushes her off.

But it does happen.

Because Beca, when she wants something, she usually gets it. But when she needs something, it comes to her. And right now, she needs to know where the Armenian Mob is keeping Jesse, so she can keep the scores between them even. She doesn't like owing anybody. Certainly not a Triplus operative. She owes no one, so she tells herself. Risking his life for her was not his place, and she will tell him that to his face, once she finds him, alive and breathing.

And she will find him alive and breathing, or she will die trying.

Not like she has anything else to live for, anyway.

* * *

**AN: **Ya'll have no idea how excited I am to give you the chapter after this...

In any case, this chappie is a filler, if you can tell. Next up will be considerably longer (hopefully), and a helluva lot more Jeca... In any case, feel free to leave your imaginings in the reviews. I actually would like to know where you think (or hope) Beca will find Jesse. You know me, I like Jesse shirtless. And lets throw in a lap dance by Beca, too. Why the hell not. And some appearances of more familiar faces... But I do have a plan for this fic, which I hope I will actually get to write...

As always, gahbless yo faces. I really appreciate it. :)

(sidenote: Kiss Me has also become a more series endeavor. So yeah.)


	17. Fight Club

If ever James Swanson would be asked by Swanson babies and grandbabies how he found his true love, he would answer them this:

Through the wire, in the lust of adrenaline and with a bloody nose and a swollen eye, while crowds cheered him down and were waiting for the other man in the cage to strike him dead.

It sounds romantically metaphorical, but unfortunately, it isn't. Nothing could be more literal. But back then, he didn't expect to live to be able to even _have_ offspring. He was just... kind of hoping he doesn't end up balls-less.

.:.

* * *

SATURDAY, ARMENIAN MOB BUILDING (UNKNOWN TERRITORY): 2330

Please, not the children.

Not the—_sweet babies, that fucking hurt._

James Swanson, covert Triplus operative, recoils ungracefully into a tucked position in order to protect his Crown Jewels. Armenians fight dirty. Seconds later, a chunky hand grabs his neck to straighten him up, and a knuckle lands pathetically unexpectedly right across his left cheekbone, and he's thrown off balance against the side of the cage, his fingers finding support in the criss-cross of wire mesh lining the ten-by-ten feet of the square space.

The square space that he must share with a man whose calves look like someone stuck balloons in there and inflated it. Jesus, the man looks like Mr. Clean... if Mr. Clean were a heavyweight wrestler with thighs the circumference of the frikkin Acropolis.

His forearm is about the size of Jesse's waist.

Whatever happened to the concept of "fair play"?

But such is his life. He spits out the red, metallic taste in his mouth, and his face catches the devious, taunting smile that is perpetually present in any and all situations of his life.

"(Come on, Hennrick. I was only joking about your ex-wife. Besides, I thought you hated her? I was doing you a fav—)"

Oomph.

Hennrick launches at his midsection, pinning Jesse against the wire, his back slick with sweat and the effects of seven days without a decent shower, he reckons the wires are going to leave a mark. Oh well. Here's to hoping the scars would at least look sexy.

He gives Hennrick a little lead, let's him have the game for a bit. The crowd, three full balconies of Mob hitmen and Mob people (christ, how can they even allow the women to watch this?) are ballistic around them. The air is hot with their body heat, unfortunately. The lights are dim, yellow, and hollow, complementing the illegality of it all. It takes a lot of effort for him to focus on his opponent with the dampened roar of expletives and obscenities from every single corner of this make-shift wrestling stage. The sound is revolting.

Almost as revolting as the smell, but he tries not to think about that.

(He doesn't know what's worse: the Mob's disregard for basic human life, or the Mob's disregard for basic human hygiene.)

His focus is on giving them a good game. Maybe he'll get three, four more days if they really like it. The last fucker he fought was just two days ago, and he's made the mistake of going through it too fast. The man, around his age and height (poor soul) didn't stand a chance. So now, he's paired with a life-sized Hulk with arms the size of his car's bumper, and with the horsepower of actual fucking horses.

Wrong move, two days ago. He should have given them a show instead of going all Rocky on the poor guy. Afterwards, he should have shouted "Are you not entertained?!"... in English. That would have been funny.

Well, consequences are consequences. He'll just have to—oomph.

An uppercut grazes he jawline, and he's a little annoyed. The face? Really? Hitting below the belt much?

They dance around the cage opposite each other for a bit, both of them tired, with the crashing sound of people shaking wads of cash and screaming for Hennrick to just "get it on". He can pick up a few keywords of advice, like "neck" and "nuts" and "snap his bloody head off already", so he slumps himself a little bit more, makes it look easy. Hennrick grunts Armenian obscenities about Jesse's mother.

Jesse is annoyed, because now, he needs to wipe the spittle off his cheek. They just _had_ to give him a spitter.

At the other side of the cage, he can see the Boss Man, Ian. Jesse feels his blood curdling. But that's another story.

Don't let your emotions fool you. He learned that one in Prague.

Hennrick launches at him again, but this time, Jesse doesn't feel like getting hit in the abdomen. So he dodges it, and Hennrick lands his shiny, bald head against the wire mesh. The scalp gets imprinted with a diamond pattern. It's pretty artsy.

Jesse is barely able to release a dry chuckle, which sounds more like a scoff, at his opponent, as he wipes the back of his hand against his bloody nose. He's panting, and he's pretty sure his left eye is swollen to the size of Texas by now.

So when he refocuses on a small, skinny woman some distance outside the cage, he thinks he must be hallucinating.

"Beca?! Wha—"

The question is cut off when Hennrick decides that Jesse would look better tackled forcefully to the concrete floor.

...

SATURDAY, CHINATOWN (NEW YORK): 2344

(earlier...)

A small opening in the metal door slides open, giving Beca a view of a pair of eyes, crinkled with age and hardened with the work.

"Ծաղրասարյակ (Mockingbird)" she says.

The pair of eyes look her up and down. She breaks eye contact to feign insecurity.

The heavy metal door clangs with the weight, and opens. Into the lair of evil men, she steps, and the game changes drastically. Whereas in the past, most of her locations have been neutral or partially neutral, this is very different. This place is a front, and is owned by the Chinese syndicate, where the Armenian Mob, the whole Armenian Mob, are renting.

Everybody's gotta pay their mortgages, after all.

Beca is careful to hide her inner asshole, careful not to look anyone in the eye, lest she be considered hostile. She uses her periphery to gauge her surroundings instead.

A little bar off to the side, several couches and little social groups gathered. Poles are set up where poles can be, and she wagers the dirty dancing will start in one hour. Typical club joint, with the dancers and all. Though dressed like it, she's not here for that. She's here for a cage fight.

She makes her way across the floor without drawing too much attention to herself. The lights are blinking and dim, and the kind that would probably warrant a spontaneous epileptic seizure. The sounds are loud too; she approximates one-ten, one-fifteen decibels. Nothing she wasn't trained to drown out.

She goes up to the bouncer at the other end of the room, and mentally practices what little Armenian she's learned from Barb.

"Ես այստեղ տեսնում Յան," she hears a man say to the bouncer, beating her to it. Beca whips her head to see Donald, staring intently at the bouncer.

The fuck.

The bouncer ushers him in, and Beca gestures to show that she's with him. She catches up with Donald's power walk, her features stoic. This is how she gets when she gets blindsided by Triplus operatives, randomly appearing like daisies in her life. Like pesky cockroaches. Popping out of nowhere. Ugh.

"What the fuck," she whispers to him as she catches up, "are you doing here?"

Donald doesn't stop walking; he goes on his merry way, expression just as stoic as hers. The two of them have entered a considerably different place. No longer the medium-class almost strip club in the other room, this shit is exclusively Armenian. Soundproof (for torture purposes, probably), silent save for the vintage jukebox off to the corner, and a whole lot of mood lighting adds to the smoke and carpeting of the joint. They receive a few hostile glares from men dressed to look like classy bikers (really _weird_ combo of suit and leather there), but she and Donald walk on. They are able to get to a corner of the room to speak, at which point Donald acknowledges her presence.

"What are you doing here?" His expression no longer stoic, his voice and face is wrought with concern.

"I asked you first."

Donald makes an annoyed expression. "So... you know?"

"Yes I fucking know! I'm the one who got him into this mess, and I thought you guys said he could handle himself, so why the hell are you here?!" It comes out as a rough whisper.

Donald looks around, hopes they aren't making a scene. Too risky to be noticed in this kind of environment.

"Look, Beca, I understand that you feel that it's your responsibility, but come on, Jesse choked you—"

"Don't give me that shit; I know why he did it. What I want to know is why you kept this information from me; you knew I was looking for him."

Donald passes a hand over his face, and she doesn't know why he's being so cryptic and aggravated. Annoying Triplus operatives are the _curse_ of her life.

"I can't tell you why, but you need to go," he tells her.

She needs to go? _Go?_ After barely sleeping and working overtime to find one of their operatives, this... asshole has the gall to tell her to go?

"I'm not going anywhere until I have Jesse back, so I can kill him myself," Beca answers, and there is a hard edge to her voice coupled with a cold professionalism as she turns on her heels and decides that, for whatever he's actually here for, he can do it by himself. Fucker.

(Now, Donald understands what Jesse sees in this little person. Whoa.)

"It's our protocol, Beca," he calls after her, and she stops walking away.

"Also, Jesse wouldn't have wanted you to be here."

This makes her turn towards him again, a painful reminder why she even bothered in the first place. She hates that fact. Jesse just threw himself in the hands of some very questionable people, for her. She will not allow that.

He's already been a nice guy, and a strange creature (not to mention that one kiss). But this? This is a bit... much.

"Yeah, well. I'm here. Nothing he can do about it now. So either you follow my lead, or stay out of my way."

Donald swallows. Yes, ma'am.

...

2356 (now...)

Beca sees Jesse get tackled to the ground the moment he lays eyes on her, and she winces. It takes her a second to understand the exact nature of the state he's in.

A cage fight. Creative.

She and Donald were led to this side of the building; the one most protected by a thick wall padding to prevent the escape of the sounds of a frantic(ally illegal) crowd.

"Got a gameplan?" Beca whispers to Donald, not once peeling her eyes away from where Jesse is getting straddled and used as a punching bag.

"Of course."

She throws him a look, which means that she knows that he's lying. He gives a sheepish smile.

"Well, I didn't know they were making him entertainment... for the _boss_," Donald emphasizes in a half-whisper.

If there were ever a time for her to be in her full game, this is it. She takes in every single detail, every possibility, because it's either she isn't leaving this place without Jesse, or she isn't leaving this place. Period.

She needs to tread this carefully. For once, she decides, she needs to be careful.

...

As feeling like a human mashed potato often warrants, Jesse starts thinking about serious matters.

Like, _why in the fuck of all things damned is Beca here?!_

He takes each of Hennrick's blows, making sure to follow through with the force, so he doesn't get too bloodied (without looking like he isn't actually getting pulverized). Damnit, he worked so hard to keep her away, so why the hell is she here with Donald?

He and Donald are going to talk about this.

Hennrick finally makes a move to get off of where he's sitting on Jesse (not a comfortable position for Jesse, in every sense of the word) in order to pull up the smaller man and plant a heavy one on his manhood. Jesse would have dodged it, certainly he would have, had he not glimpsed Beca going straight for... the boss, Ian.

Oh shitshitshitshit no—

Oomph.

Hennrick succeeds, and the crowds go wild.

Jesse's attention is torn between Beca and Hennrick and his burning _boys_, and it is a crazy hassle to keep his focus straight. Shifting his eyes from where Beca is being patted down to where Hennrick is spitting all over the place, he decides to call the game over. Beca first.

So he sniffs what blood he can off his nose, and looks Hennrick dead straight, putting on his most annoyingly charming smile.

"(By the way, I fucked your sister.)"

The principles of Judo are very simple: maximum efficiency, minimum effort. Anyone who knows the basics laws of physics should be able to learn this sport pretty easily. Jesse finished college physics at the age of fifteen.

So when Hennrick gets all red in the face (bonus points for Jesse's use of psychology) and launches himself at Jesse, it takes him less than ten seconds to get Hennrick into a lock. Tackled to the floor, Jesse takes around a good ten, fifteen seconds to cut off Hennrick's brain blood flow, during which, Jesse's sudden actions wipes the collective cheer from the crowd.

He releases the unconscious man to complete and utter silence, the audience basically not understanding what just happened.

But Jesse doesn't care. No more games. Not when there are lives at risk (other than his, of course).

He looks at Ian, whose attention is redirected from Beca, back to Jesse. Jesse is hoping she would turn around for the sole purpose of shooting her a pissed look. She's not supposed to be here. She doesn't know what she's getting herself into.

"(Ian, I need to talk to you,)" Jesse calls out, voice low with aggravation.

His attention distracted from speaking with Beca, Ian stands up, motions for his body guards to open the cage.

...

Beca turns around just in time to take a good look at Jesse, coming over to them while the crowd resumes its deadly ferocity. Apparently, games are only good if the underdog loses. Not very sporty, these Mob people.

She can see the tick in his jaw, the steady seriousness in his eyes, and not one hint of exhaustion or fatigue, swollen eye and all.

He _is_ good...

(And shirtless, sweaty, bloody and bruised. She's worried for him, but at the same time... that look might maybe turns her on, just a little... Wait, _what the fuck, Beca. Now is not a good time for that_.)

_Never_ is a good time for that, actually. Nope.

Jesse comes up to Ian, and he doesn't even turn to look at her. He addresses the boss man, speaking in Armenian. Probably to peeve her. Consider her peeved.

She doesn't know what they're saying, but she can read the tone, and body language. As the bouncers and other men guard their small area from the impending lynch mob that demands a second take, and while Hennrick in the cage is coming to, a little more pacified (and probably slightly brain damaged), Beca tries to read off the conversation best she can.

Ian is a man of his word, that much she can tell. He's a looker, but he's all business too. And he's young. He is also a gambler; Beca can smell gambling men from far off, she can tell when someone has nothing and everything to lose, men who have the tendency to play the odds to the edge.

And of course, what kind of operative would she be if she doesn't use this to her advantage?

From where the two men are conversing in front of her, like she's not even there, Jesse raises his tone, to which Ian gets relatively uncomfortable. The air smells of tension.

Whatever Jesse did to piss him off, Beca thinks that it's probably a highly complicated matter that doesn't have a clear-cut right or wrong answer. She doesn't know what Jesse's trying to communicate, but she's already offered Ian a deal...

Which Ian, of course, tells Jesse in Armenian, laughing as he does so. Jesse turns to Beca with an expression that is all too open for their line of work.

"Beca, you what?!"

"Save it, Swanson," she brushes off.

His look catches a bout of surprise, probably from the way she just used his last name. He opens his mouth to say something, but too late, as several guards have taken to surrounding Jesse and grabbing him by the arms to whisk him off to the side, with Donald.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing, Beca?!" Jesse shouts as he vainly struggles against the grips on his arms, dragging him away as she looks at him with a placid expression, arms crossed over her chest.

"So it's a deal?" she turns to Ian. The man gives her a devious, but sincere, smile.

"But of course. Are you certain you want to raise the stakes that high?"

Beca gives him a wicked smile for an answer, right before she turns around and heads for the cage, where Hennrick is being ushered out. The fact that Ian doesn't know her at all will play to her advantage.

...

The men do not release Jesse's arms as he looks on in horror, as Beca steps up into the cage, kicking her stilettos off, and as she lifts her tight black dress over her shoulders to remove it, revealing nothing but a pair of black running shorts and sports bra, refixing her messy bun more securely, as she faces the crowd. Her skin is now mostly exposed, revealing several tattoos and a few scars, and some areas where there used to be the bluish hues of bruising. Now, they just look slightly yellow.

If the audience was wild before, they are batshit, apeshit, bloody crazy now.

Jesse's heart is racing for an explanation. What the fuck. Seriously. He didn't save this woman's ass more than once, only to have her throw her life away to the Mob because of him.

He is fucking angry, and he has earned the damn right to be.

When they close the cage, the men release Jesse's arms, but they block his way when he tries to march up to it. Jesse turns his attention to Donald, who is looking on in (almost) equal horror.

"Did you know about this?" Jesse demands. Donald shakes his head absently, apparently in a slight daze because of how weird shit just got.

"Seriously, man! What fuck were you thinking bringing her here?!"

"Dude, don't look at me, I just saw her here and I tried to convince her to leave but she wouldn't—"

Donald is cut short by a momentary burst of audience anticipation, as they see a huge, hooded figure come out from one of the doors off to the side of the cage.

"What... is happening," Donald asks, still in a slight daze.

"Small woman fight," one of the guards offers in his best English, "Lasts five meenutes. Eef she lose, you (the guard points to Donald) and her (the guard points to Beca) go with him (the guard motions to Jesse). Stay with us. Eendefinitely."

"Oh... wait, _what?!_"

* * *

**AN:**

Honestly, this was supposed to be posted on Friday, but you know how much I love you guys. For _Hate Finding Usernames_, for working so very (not) hard on her assignment. ;)

Also, I love everything you guys suggested in the reviews on the last chapter, and yes, they might maybe show up in the next chapter. So now, I'd like to hear more. Yes? No? I hope to have the next chapter up soon, so in the meantime, review? If you, know, want to...


	18. Girl, Interrupted

They open the cage for the (mammoth) opponent to enter, while Jesse stares on, helplessly.

Sure, Beca is trained. Beca can take care of herself. But this is a different environment, where she can't just utilize objects at her disposal. She has no resources, literally backed up _against the walls_, without anything or anyone, against people she doesn't understand, and with a history she doesn't know Jesse has with them. And while he knows that she's good, and she is absolutely brilliant at what she does, that doesn't stop the panicky worry gnawing at him.

Not to mention that she has now made the acquaintance of the _whole_ Armenian Mob, and they now know her face.

Not cool, Becs. Not fucking cool in the least.

The crowd is already on edge as Ian makes a show of setting the timer on his iPhone (because even Mob bosses need phones).

Five minutes.

They let the huge man inside, just as Beca turns around, hair in a sufficient bun, the same calm, bored look that she pulls off like a supermodel. Sasha Fucking _Fierce_, this woman is (and Jesse's brain is doing an eeny-meenie-miny-moe between worried, upset, and turned-on as hell).

He sees her face her opponent, and she has to look up. The guy is a _giant_.

"Whoa, that dude is..." Donald says, his voice tapering to a squeak.

The man removes his hoodie, to reveal a braid falling down, right between a massive pair of... breasts.

"Not a dude. It's not a dude..." Donald is in an almost medical state of shock.

Aw, shit. Hennrick's sister.

...

While Beca has long accepted that around 99.7% of people in this world are larger than her, she didn't think they could get, like, _that_ large.

Seriously. What do they feed Mob babies? Gerber: pureed _steroids_?

She has all her random thoughts on a string at the back of her mind, while her presently active mental state dodges the woman's (woman, right? Well, shit. She hopes so.) blows.

It's good that being large is being slow. Beca knew what she was getting into, and she's more than prepared to last five minutes...

(She dodges a blow, and the crowds protest. The cage rattles where the other woman's knuckles land.)

...but the deal was to have another _woman_ in the cage, and that Ian is a sneaky bastard. Still. A deal's a deal, and Beca cannot lose this fight. Donald would be pissed.

Okay. Five minutes. She can do that. She knows she has to put on a show, so she can't just go thigh-choke her opponent. (Especially if she's wrong, and this woman actually _is_ a dude. That would be awkward.) So it's either she finds a way not to get squished, or she brings her A-game and ends the fight right here.

She dodges a huge fist, which lands against the wire mesh, shaking the cage again. Fuck, this woman is _strong_.

Four minutes, forty-five seconds.

She has been successfully dodging some playful throws, but she knows that this is just warm up, and she's not sure how strong she'll be gripped. She can last five minutes, but she doesn't want to look like a piece of shit afterwards.

So she skips the dodges, latches on to the wiring, and climbs up.

...

The crowd goes nuts as Beca is able to successfully reach a height that keeps her out of reach of the other woman. Jesse now knows that Beca did not anticipate the immensity of her opponent. His concern is doubled.

Four minutes, fifteen seconds.

Hennrick's sister (Gretchen, if Jesse recalls correctly. Or was it Hilda? He really needs to get his names straight...) gets a bright idea, as she suddenly starts shaking the wire walls. Beca grimaces as her small hands try to find purchase on the wire, making her already-slender fingers and arms all sinewy and taut from exertion.

When Jesse glimpses the slight, red smears on her palms where the wire is rough, _that is it._

In a speed they did not anticipate, Jesse evades the bouncers to his left and right, and makes straight for the boss, sitting comfortably, some eighteen feet away. When his body guards immediately draw on Jesse, Ian makes them stand down, letting Jesse near enough for a conversation. A negotiation.

"Cut the deal, Ian."

"Afraid I can't do that. It's not your deal to cut."

The crowds go wild when Beca loses her foothold, and one hand momentarily lets go, palms now scathed and red, the weight of her body hanging by her ten small fingers.

"Cut the deal. She has nothing to do with this."

"She made her bed, Swanson. You know how it goes."

"Ian, come on. I'm asking you this... please."

The two men look at each other, and there is a strange form of mutual understanding that passes between them. Ian maybe a merciless business man, the cunning CEO of All Things Evil and Co., but Jesse knows that he has boundaries. He has lines. He knows Jesse does, as well.

And this is Jesse, telling him that Beca is _his_ line. Ian wouldn't dare cross him on that.

He shouldn't.

Two minutes, thirty seconds.

Jesse sees Ian twist his mouth in contemplation.

"I am sorry, Jesse, I really am. But I can't let her go without backing on my word. Plus, you know how I love a good wager."

At which point, Jesse is jolted by the sudden sound of the crowd behind him, and he whips his head around to see that Beca has fallen from her perch, and is now pinned beneath what Jesse approximates to be around two hundred and fifteen pounds, give or take.

The crowd is insane, it's like the Superbowl.

(Two women wrestling beats twenty-two men running after a ball, any day.)

Jesse sees Beca lose air from where she's struggling under the woman's fingers, and he really, _really_ doesn't like how she's dragging this out. If he knows Beca, he's sure she can get herself out of this, right? Of course, Jesse thinks.

Two minutes.

_Probably_. She's just waiting for...

One minute, fifty-eight seconds.

Christ, _what if she can't?_

"Call it off, Ian!"

The aggression in Jesse's tone immediately puts him on the hostile, and one of Ian's guards pulls out a gun and points it steady against Jesse's bare stomach. Jesse instinctively puts his hands up, but it doesn't wipe the determination on his face.

"I am fucking serious, Ian. _Call it off._"

But Ian doesn't hear, because there is a slight amusement playing on his expression as Beca and Gretchen wrestle for supremacy.

(Donald is highly _unamused_ by the possibility of spending a lifetime under the Armenian Mob's all-meat diet.)

The crowd is so wild, there are literally hundred-thousand Dram bills flying everywhere, showering the soon-to-be victorious Gretchen.

One minute, forty-

And then Beca twists the situation, rolling over on the other woman as she catches her (and everyone else) off guard, with a locked grip around the woman's neck and right leg. Jesse knows that maneuver... Ha. Looks like she picked up a trick or two from him.

The crowd looks flash-frozen.

Gretchen is struggling. Beca keeps her arms locked, the blood on her palms smearing everywhere.

Jesse's racing palpitations are reduced.

_Oh, thank god_.

But from the corner of Jesse's eyes, he notices Ian's cunning smile. (Not good.)

Beca releases her grip, the other woman not protesting. Not moving.

...

The woman slumps unconscious as Beca untangles her limbs, panting, sweaty. Tired beyond measure. Especially when she looks at the blood on her hands.

...

Jesse takes a well-deserved moment to release a shuddering sigh. Beca is okay. (It's strange, and probably _not_ a good idea, how much Jesse has invested in those three little words.) At least, physically.

Ian signals for the guards to open the cage, from where Beca pads down and walks on over to the two men, picking her heels up with two fingers, her black dress hanging over one arm. Without shoes on, she should look infinitely smaller, but the aura she exudes is far from small. He watches her walk towards them, and he has to stop himself from rushing over to her and picking her up in a hug. In the middle of the scene, with Ian (not to mention, _Donald_) and the _entire Mob_, after having watched her strangle one of _their_ members... that would be a little inappropriate.

"I am impressed," Ian says as he stands up to meet her, while the crowd is enraged, Armenian words thrown against Beca, suggesting something along the lines of burning her at the stake. Dram bills everywhere, and though they want their money back, everyone seems to understand that the show is over, and the screams descend slowly into a low droll.

"However," Ian adds, and Jesse doesn't like the sound of that, "you were supposed to finish in... (Ian looks down on his phone, which, after a few moments, beeps)... now. So technically, your part of the bargain wasn't fulfilled."

Beca visibly pauses the catching of her breath.

"Are you serious?" she snaps, and Jesse hears the words as _Do not fuck with me, good sir._

"She lasted five minutes, Ian," Jesse counters. He can feel himself enter into a higher level of alertness, ready to lay the Armenian Mob boss flat. He will _not_ roll with this.

"She did not. I can attest to that."

"A deal's a deal, Ian! What the fuck!" Granted, Jesse might be a little overwhelmed at the idea that his panic attacks aren't over for tonight, and he just might lose what little shit he hasn't yet lost over Beca's surprise visitation. His tone (once again) garners the attention of Ian's myriad body buddies.

Beca senses the immediate tension, and steps in.

"I gave you entertainment," she continues, ignoring Jesse's questioning glare at the side of her head, "and I gave you a fair chance at the three of us. You didn't think I could win, and I did. I offered you a gamble, and you lost. That was our deal."

"Funny," Ian comments, "I said _last five minutes in the cage_. You cut it at four minutes and forty."

The air is laced with a lighted fuse, burning and counting down into what can be an explosion of bad faith. (So, very _not_ good.)

...

Beca hates that this man is smart, and he's playing her against the technicalities. She did not anticipate this. He's an intelligent fucker, and she needs to watch her step, and where she takes this.

Oh, fine. Time to bring out the big guns, Beca thinks.

"Look, man," Beca says (and her tone is devilishly soft that Jesse is a little concerned), "I'm sorry, I didn't realize I had ten more seconds... but if you wanted to see some action tonight, you really should have just... _asked_."

...

And then the corners of her lips turn upwards, and Jesse doesn't like it.

"Well, what did you have in mind," Ian says, as a servant appears out of nowhere to give him an ice-cold glass of champaign.

"Here's the thing, since we both got off on technicalities anyway, and since technically, I won, how about this: I give you a lap dance, and we walk."

Ian ponders her words from behind the champaign glass, his eyes hooded, going over her half-naked, battered form.

Jesse reminds himself to keep his cool.

"You're damaged goods, why would you think I want you," Ian deadpans.

"Watch it."

Those two words from Jesse, and the air is hostile again.

"Don't mind him," Beca says to Ian, "you know how boyfriends get. What do you say?"

Ian ponders her proposition, and Jesse is thinking about what Beca just said. So, her cover for this is as his girlfriend...

Beca, on the other hand, just needs Ian to bite. The consolation prize she's offering should be enough to tempt him...

Donald is just plain freaking the fuck out over at the corner.

"And..." Ian directs his words to Jesse, "you're okay with this?"

Jesse shrugs. How the hell is he supposed to answer that?

"She does what she wants."

And that's that. The crowd has, by this time, partially dispersed, and it's only the choice body guards and the the four of them remaining. Ian smirks the smirk of a man who's looking forward to a lust-filled evening. Jesse's fist clench.

"I'll see you soon then, darling." Ian taps the bottom of Beca's chin before fixing the lapels of his suit and turning on his heels, his body guards trailing behind.

"Looking forward to it," she replies, and Jesse hears the words as _I don't like you._

...

As soon as the three bouncers have ushered the three of them into a private room, where Beca can freshen up, as soon as the door closes, Jesse turns to Beca in a fit.

"What are you doimmpphh-"

Her fingers fly to his mouth, muffling the sounds as she looks around the tiny room. It's a spare dressing room for the strippers, and just as she had expected.

Windows.

"Donald, help me up here," she says, and Donald comes up to her, at once understanding.

Oh, wow, Jesse thinks. _How does she come up with this?_

"So, you're not gonna follow through with that lap dance?" Jesse asks, as Donald hoists Beca up to one of the upper windows. She doesn't answer, until all three of them have finally exited the building via this not-so-conventional way.

They are now outside the building, in an alley. Jesse figures that they're in Chinatown, New York. They're not far from Triplus HQ...

"We gotta get going," Beca suddenly says, tugging on her black dress as she fixes it on her person.

"Wouldn't it be better if you just... gave him a lap dance?" Donald offers.

_No_, Jesse thinks.

"He's not the kind to let us off the hook that easy; I know the type," Beca replies dryly as she is already five steps ahead of them, leading the way. They follow her as she seems to head for the direction of some very complicated alley structure of the flee market.

"And I don't know how to lap dance."

_Well, who would've thought_. This woman is infinitely full of surprises.

* * *

**AN: **Part three of this, soon to come.

I made a mistake in the last chapter; I meant that the suggestions might be in the later chapters (with 's'), so sorry if I disappointed ya'll. As for the lap dance, don't quite discredit it yet... :)

PS. You guys are seriously wonderful. I have the best reviewers, and I am always so, very grateful. You keep me writing this. And I know I don't always reply, and I hate myself everyday because of it, but I love how you guys know me so, very well. Everything ya'll state in the reviews are taken into account, esp with what you want to happen. Sexy dancing, rubber boobs, tension... I read them all. They inspire me. I love you guys. (ew sappy)


	19. Ho Hey

SUNDAY, CHINATOWN (NEW YORK): 0243

(same night...)

Beca leads the two Triplus operatives tagging along inside a derelict apartment, complete with peeling walls and discarded janitorial tools with the same brand of household cockroaches to match. She leads them through, only to have them end up at the building next to it: a small room with shattered glass panes, dirty mattresses, and a probable backstory of domestic abuse. No one would think of living here, which is a perfect cover for a safehouse. A Bellatorum one.

Beca closes the door behind them. Finally. They're in a safe place now. She rests her forehead on the closed door to savor the feel of relief that floods her.

This was a long night.

The sounds of life, just outside the walls, the flee market is still buzzing, humming with the kind of energy she doesn't have. Lights would sometimes wave through the frosted glass, where cars or bikes occasionally pass. Sometimes there would be loud voices, some karaoke, Beca wagers. She can smell the street food, but she stops analyzing past the fact that it's food. She needs to give herself some time to rest.

When she turns around, she sees Jesse looking at her. She holds his eyes for a moment... then let's it go, ignoring the way his face is disfigured from the fight, and the concern she feels about it...

_Don't go there, Mitchell. Don't do that. _

"Hey, Beca," they are disturbed by Donald's voice from the the far corner of the room, where he is rummaging for food, "would you guys happen to keep any canned sushi around here?"

...

Jesse has had just about enough time to process the events, only to come at an impasse with himself.

When once he thought Beca would never, in a million years, think twice about leaving him to the sharks after what he did to her, he now finds himself infinitely confused.

For her to regard him professionally, with kindness, is one thing.

For her to risk her life for him, is another.

She's tired, and she's not exactly in her Sunday's best, but he can't help it. He can't stop looking at her.

It's no longer thoughts driven by his maleness (which had suffered more than one _literal_ blow tonight), or by his ego (which, okay, he has plenty of). It's not anything he has ever felt before. And he can feel his senses struggling, his mind at war. This is the effect she has on him.

She looks at him, and it's unreadable. He never was able to peg her, but who the hell cares. She is beautiful.

He will tell her that.

He can tell her that, right?

He should tell her that.

He should ask her out, matter of fact.

He should have done so already. It's not like they haven't already crossed the myriad lines that exist in their profession. It started with a drive, and it's now become so much more than that. Being part of rival organizations come with certain duties and responsibilities, especially when it comes to looking for what might be the most valuable information in the world, but again... it's not just that anymore.

Professionalism keeps the operatives in their line of work isolated from each other. Truth is, it's a lonely job. The only thing you have is your organization, and sometimes, not even. (Read: CIA. Notorious for leaving their operatives in the cold. Even if for the good of the country, that's still a hard life to live.)

And if he had thought he had lost her, as he had done what he could last week and has been living with that thought ruefully when he was kept hostage by the Mob, she comes back to baffle him once again.

Sure, maybe she's just being professional. But they've crossed that line ages ago.

As much as he has no clue what this means, her coming here tonight for him is... not so much as unnecessary, as undeserved. And he's not sure what to do... Except, maybe, ask her out for a coffee one of these days, while they're both still living and breathing to taste coffee.

It's times like these, that one should throw care to the wind; times like these are rare, and you take them when you find them.

...

Beca goes to the small bathroom, runs the water to get rid of the first, rusty wash. She leans over at the sink, and takes a good look at her face in the mirror. Her face is disfigured where the black spots on the ancient surface cover it. She can't see herself clearly. She hasn't for a while now. She closes her eyes to keep the memories away. Then, she starts to think of everything that she's done tonight. And why.

_What are you doing, Mitchell?_

When she whisks a few strands of her hair away from her face, she notices her palms again. Slightly orange in the lighting of the bathroom. Caked with blood. Down on the sink, the orange stains from where her hands come into contact with the wet, dirty porcelain.

She takes a breath, and places her hands under the now clear, running water. Eyes closed, she rubs them together. Blood stains are difficult to remove. Impossible, even.

She doesn't realize that she's rubbing them too much, and the sore of the wounds are starting to bleed again.

She doesn't know this, but Jesse does.

Her eyes are still closed when she hears him close the faucet, take her hands in his. And then his arms wrap around her, taking her in. He holds her close, chin resting at the top of her head. Her eyes are still shut.

Even if only for a fleeting moment, Beca lets herself forget the memories, and the tiredness. She lets herself listen to him breathe, his chest falling in tandem with hers, his arms around her, and she doesn't let herself mind. She doesn't move, or say anything. She doesn't want to.

Then he pulls away slowly (hesitantly, maybe). It's strange how she just realizes that she was listening to his heart's cadence, only once she doesn't hear it anymore.

He pulls back at arms length, hands on her shoulders, to take a good look at her. She keeps her eyes away because she is tired. She's not comfortable with someone seeing her tiredness. The broken bathroom tiles are more interesting, anyway.

"You okay?"

Is she okay? For some reason, that question makes her laugh.

"Really? You're asking me this when..." she gestures to his face, which looks way worse than he lets on.

It actually looks really bad, Beca realizes.

...

The gravity of what she had done for him doesn't fully hit him until he takes note of how she carries herself tonight. She is tired, in more ways than one. He has felt that at times, as well.

But when he sees her washing the blood off her hands with her eyes closed... he may be the one with the battered face, but his wounds do not compare to the ones that she has. The ones that he cannot see, but feel. And his heart cries out to her, and for her.

He can hear his subconscious warning him: _Tread lightly, Swanson_. He doesn't listen.

The blood on her hands are because of him.

Without telling his feet to do so, he goes over to her and takes her in his arms. She needs a hug. She needs to be okay. He wants her to be. He leaves his own physical exhaustion at the door, and just lets himself hold her.

There is a story here; he's known this for a while now. Possibly a history that she doesn't deserve. For what it's worth, he doesn't let go. Without meaning for it to be so, he let's himself fall a little closer to her. This woman has been through so much, and it seems like she's all alone.

In this world that they live in, lives come and go in a snap. That much, Jesse understands. He knows the value of a life, a moment, a second, in this line of work. That's all you have until it's taken away from you.

But the way Beca lives in the fast lane, her willingness to be courted by danger, is not the life that would make her okay. There is a difference between being good at what you do, and being reckless from a lack of concern about yourself. With Beca, that difference is unclear.

It's about time someone else courted her. He's not willing to leave her alone to the danger that she seems to be so inclined to follow. She deserves better than that.

He pulls back to take a good look at her.

"You okay?"

The scoff that follows are one of the walls that she puts up. That's another thing he will work on with her.

"Really? You're asking me this when..." And then her brows furrow, and she takes his face in her still-damp hands, looking him over. The feel of her cold skin against his is a little overwhelming.

She breaks away from his hold when she says, "Go outside, I'll be out in a minute."

Ah, there it is again. Professional. Cold. He complies, though he regrets the sudden change of atmosphere, the back-to-business state she always brings them to when things become... real. He still wants to hold her close, and there are so many things he wants to ask her and tell her. One of these days, he'll figure out how to keep her from pushing him away. But for now...

Taking a seat on the only chair in the sparse apartment, he sees Donald open the fridge. It breaks. Damn, this place is _old_.

"Uh... I'll... put it on our bill," Donald says.

Beca comes out after a few moments, with some cotton, iodine, a sewing kit (yikes...), a basin of water, and what is presumably some antiseptic alcohol. She goes straight to him and takes a good look at his face. He doesn't have time to try to see if her pupils dilate, because she is up and back to business, as per usual.

"Let's fix you up," she tells him absently, placing the first-aid on a nearby side table. And then she tears a piece of her black dress and opens the alcohol. She takes a swig (wait, what) before dousing the piece of cloth with it.

"Ow! Fuck!" Jesse is taken aback with the way she swipes the damp cloth under his eye.

"Don't move."

"Thanks for—_ow_—being so—_ouch_—gentle with me." Jesus, is she trying to wipe his features off his face?

"Don't be a baby," she tells him, scraping the black cloth on his wounds while her other hand simultaneously reaches for the alcohol by the table to take a sip (seriously? That shit's like, what, 70% alcohol?).

Jesse hisses when the cloth grazes the sensitive skin beneath his eyes. Beca pauses. It's the infamous smiley-frown she has.

"Dude, does it really hurt?"

_Oh, no. Totally just hissing cause I think it's sexy_. God, her sarcasm is rubbing off on him.

"Wow, thanks for making me feel like such a man."

"You're welcome," she tells him as she un-crouches to wash the cloth in the basin, smile on her lips and a quirk in her step, he thinks she must be enjoying this. She resumes her task on his face, a little more gently this time, with the sound of Donald inadvertently breaking things in the kitchen.

"Does the Bellatorum live on a water and air diet? Cause this place is lacking in some major chow," they hear Donald complain, where he is opening cabinets more gently, lest the rotting wood falls on him. Or lizards, or other unsavory creatures.

"There should be some live insects in the pantry, if you like exotic food," Beca jokes. Jesse laughs, which turns into a hiss from Beca accidentally putting too much pressure. "Sorry."

"I'm starting to think you just wanted to have an excuse to touch my face," he tells her, with his signature flirt on. He regrets it the moment she digs the cloth on his nose. "Ow."

"Really? Have you looked in the mirror lately?" she jests right back, standing up to wash the blood off the cloth again. She stretches her back, right before she does so, and Jesse realizes that she's been bent over to help him, and not even in a kinky way at that.

"You wanna sit down?"

It was a thoughtless little half-joke, especially because there are no more seats to be had. But of course, he had it coming; he's been nothing but such a gamer since they met. She smirks (uh-oh).

"Thought you'd never ask," she says, her words coming out of her mouth almost as fast as she swings her leg (sweet jesus) over his lap, her torn little dress riding up on her thighs. He offered for her to sit, but he was not expecting that she would actually... _sit_. On _him_.

Oh holy fuck keep your cool Swanson keep your cool there is a woman straddling you (and it's _Beca_) keep your cool...

(She rests her weight near his knees, avoiding sitting too close to his manhood. Even now, she is kind to him.)

The smirk is still on her face from his shell-shocked, speechless expression and she just resumes her task, the skin of her thighs against the fabric of his jeans, the bitch.

"Hey, do you have any—WHOA, there. Get a room, why don't you?!" Donald turns around to see them both in this compromising position, and Jesse needs to stifle a wince. Beca doesn't even flinch.

"You mean like you and Stacie back at the Ritz?" Beca deadpans.

Jesse drops all pretenses of _cool_. What.

"That's... uh—"

"Seriously, Don? You... _Trebleboned a Bella_?!"

At the word _Treblebone_, Beca freezes, looking at him for an explanation.

"It's a thing," he tells her. They were bored one mission, okay? Bumper invented a new word that would get stuck into the Triplus vocabulary.

"Yea—that's not a thing, and I will need you to never use that word. Ever." she tells him right back. She reaches over for the basin, crowding Jesse against the backrest of the small chair. He stops himself short of thinking about how close the skin of her neck is to his lips...

_Don't do anything stupid._

Donald. Donald is here. And his lips are burst. And he hasn't showered. His breath probably smells like rotten eggs. He's not wearing Axe...

Jesse tells himself all these things, because he really shouldn't be thinking of how easy it is to ride on the waves of adrenaline and start making out with the woman on his lap. Plus, she's probably going to bite his face off if he makes a move.

Biting. Face. Wait, why is he turned on? _Turn it off, Swanson, jesus._

"I'm gonna... go get food," Donald tells them as he proceeds to the door, looking at the two operatives joined at the thighs, sharing a chair and personal space together. "I'll ah, you two just..." he trails off, gesticulating at the general area of weirdness in front of him, right before he opens the door. He finally settles with an expression between morbidly amused and _I-just-saw-my-granmother-naked_.

"You two want anything? Sushi?" Donald says, right before he closes the door on them, trying to cull his thoughts away from the sight of the freak of nature.

"That's Japanese," Jesse says.

"Whatever. Asian food. Anything?"

"How about a condom?" Beca calls over her shoulder, jest in her voice.

Ha. Hahahaha.

He hears Donald's disgusted "oh god" right before he leaves the two of them. Beca turns back to face him with a little smile playing on her lips. She takes the tiny sewing kit, as she prepares to stitch him up.

It's really funny how, just a week ago, he was saying goodbye to her, and now, she's fixing him up, just as he had done her. Life parallelisms right here. He should totally make this into a movie. One which he can give a happy ending to, as opposed to the precarious situation that is the world that he and Beca live in.

She gently turns his head a bit to the side, right after soaking the needle and thread with alcohol. Closer to his face, she focuses on the split skin, right beneath his left eye. She is so close to him, he can feel the warmth of her breath against the skin of his lips, despite the dried blood. It is _messing_ with his concentration...

He can't take his eyes off of her.

He hears her words of "You're staring at me", but not as much as he takes note of the way her lips curve upwards (she needs to stop doing that...) when she says them, even though her focus is on the spot beneath his left eye.

"Am I? I'm sorry. Where would you like me to stare?"

She rolls her eyes. He feels the victory.

Somewhere outside, the karaoke has stopped. It is replaced by a familiar song. Jesse could hug the universe at this moment.

She grimaces when she makes a mistake with the needle.

"Ouch," Jesse winces.

"Sorry. I'm not really that good at this."

She's saying sorry? This makes him laugh out loud, which causes her to pause in turn.

"What?"

"Nothing, it's just..."

He takes a good look at her eyes... pupils probably not as large as his, at the moment... this is a moment; he should take it.

"You don't have to say sorry for anything, Beca."

She rolls her eyes again. "Yeah, well, don't be sappy about it," she says, making a move to continue her stitching, but he stops her.

"I'm serious." His hands rest themselves gently on her waist, to keep her from moving. To keep her from running away. "I want you to know that I'm grateful. For you and to you, and everything you've done. Thank you."

When she looks at him, he knows she's gauging the authenticity of his words. She's trying to find a loophole, thinking of how the other shoe would drop. It's the guard that she puts up, and Jesse wants nothing more than take her in his arms right now (again) and tell her, with whole sincerity, that she doesn't have to calculate him. His heart is laid bare before her at this moment.

...

The moment strikes her.

His face is devoid, completely _empty_ of any devious trickery or manipulation or any of those things that she has been so used to in their line of work. It's such a strange occurrence. Like seeing a unicorn. It fascinates her to no end, that she doesn't realize her brows furrow.

He really is serious.

The brown in his eyes... his pupils are blown away (it's the lighting... it _has _to be), and he's looking at her for no other reason than the fact. Her mind races to find an acceptable, logical, _trained_ understanding of what his endgame is, what he's trying to pull off here, but she comes up short.

Oh, fuck, he's serious.

_Jesus christ_. Beca feels her heart involuntarily speed up, fed by an emotion she has long shut away, and it stirs into a slight panic. She turns her eyes away from him with a matching huff of breath. To hide how strange he is making her feel right now, not knowing how to react to him.

He sees her struggle for a response, so what he does is to take her hands, with the needle and the thread. He turns them over in his. He's buying time, or something. He's looking down at them, at it gives her a chance to look at the crease in his bloodied brow. He's waiting to say something. Beca knows. Deep inside, he's struggling too.

What is happening here...

She can feel the air rise with tensions (note: plural) unspoken, unresolved between them. Fuck. She doesn't understand what's happening, and she hates that she doesn't understand. It's weird. Like him. It doesn't make sense, the way he can just switch between mission asshole and selfless martyr, from operative to the guy who kissed her...

_Wait, hang on..._

"Why did you kiss me?"

...shit.

The words are out as a result of her desperation for clarity in this moment; they are neither approved by her over-zealous brain-to-mouth filter, and neither are they remotely acceptable in this circumstance. Fuck. Why the fuck did she ask that. Stupid subconscious. Sneaky little shit.

But Jesse doesn't take his eyes away from where he's turning her hands in his. Gentle and pondering, he lets out a low laugh, before looking up at her eyes, which he holds with such intensity.

"Because I could."

Without taking his eyes off of hers, and probably instinctively, he holds her small hands. Such a small, simple, underrated gesture, without any pretenses or showy intentions, he brings them to his lips. It's an act of thanks, and an act of...

Beca doesn't know. She really doesn't know.

But she is tired, and Jesse is kind, and they were successful tonight. Tomorrow will come, another day to put her guard up just like wearing clothes, over and over again. It's become such a tiresome routine, the kind that she refuses to protest when it becomes burdensome. So she just lets out a calm, collected huff of breath. She doesn't want to bother with what he's trying to do here...

"Have coffee with me."

She is jolted out of her train of thought by his... statement.

"Dude..." _What?_

"Have coffee with me, Beca."

...

The Earth maybe rotating on its axis right now. Maybe not. Jesse could not care less.

Because when there is a beautiful woman on your lap who had just taken a beating, and she's stitching you up and looking at you with that funny little bite on her lower lip and dried, bloody palms, hair clumped with sweat having come from an Armenian cage fight, _for you_, you give her your attention. Jesse has his priorities straight.

She huffs an amused "You're an idiot" at him, tries to get up from his lap, but Jesse is nothing if not persistent. He grips her waist a little more.

Maybe he is an idiot. A complete, utter fool. But he is one who has her sitting on his lap, and he's not about to let go.

If there's one thing he's learned, it's that, in this life, when you find something valuable, you hold onto it. Else, it's gone in a blink, faster that you can say "I'm a spy". Or "Have coffee with me". So okay, maybe he is a little in over his head with this woman, but to hell with it.

He has let her go one too many times. Not now. Not a chance.

Screw subtle.

(Not that he ever _was_, but that's besides the point.)

She is beautiful. And skilled. And kind. He needs to tell her that, when she goes out for a coffee with him. In Paris. On top of the Eiffel Tower. Midnight. With fireworks. Sounds like a good first date plan.

"Beca, I'm not going to stop until you agree to have coffee with me."

"Stop what?" she says, sharp smile to her lips, it could cut his heart in half. There is a challenge etched on her expression. He is _intoxicated_.

...

She feels his fingertips dig into the skin of her waist, keeping her from standing up.

"Have coffee with me," he says again.

Ugh. Stupid idiot persistent annoying _weirdo_.

"Is that your gameplan? Keep on asking until I say yes?"

"I'm not asking."

His voice is low, daring. With that smirk on his face, it's only one thing: seductive.

Well, well. Look at this asshole.

This time, the look she gives him is equal parts incredulous and amused. Okay, maybe not equal parts. Maybe, say, 60% amused. Alright, 70.

"_Have coffee with me_."

His voice is reduced to an almost growl, a baritone meant to rile her, and she would wipe that smug (sexy... wait, no. Not sexy. _Not sexy_.) grin off his face, if it weren't already so bruised. She still has some two stitches to finish him up, but he had decided to go all sappy on her and, well, he brought this upon himself.

...

Jesse thinks he's such a smart fucker.

Thinks he has the situation under complete control. He can totally work her up. No biggie.

He forgot that Beca is _also_ a trained spy. As with all spies, there is an element of matching game for game.

So when she puts down her sewing and braces both her arms on either side of his head, against the backrest, leans forward and skirts her hips closer to his, leaning down literally _centimeters_ (holy fuck) from his split lip and body, he realizes just how little control he has when he's around her.

"Or what?"

Well, then.

The temperature rises, and if Jesse were any less the operative he was, he would have flushed. Instead, he leans down further, closer, if that were even possible. His forehead against hers, and her eyes crinkle with amusement. It's a game, he tells himself. A delicious game the two of them play, and have been unconsciously playing, since that fateful evening in Belarus. Cat and mouse. Catch and release. Hate and... something else. Whatever. It's a game...

That borders dangerously close to the distinct reality of their relationship. Which he intends to bring to the next level.

"Have... (she laughs) coffee with me..."

Their noses are almost touching, and there's not enough eyespace for them to look at each other anymore; all he can do now is stare at her lips... she probably doesn't realize how much her mouth turns him on...

...

He's determined, she'll give him that.

Have coffee with him, he tells her...

His hands are gentle when she feels them rise slightly, his fingers resting like ghosts on her lower ribcage. Granted, this is the closest they've ever been to each other (not counting the time when he squeezed her neck), and it's good, old fashioned fun in the making She can feel his every breath against the angle of their faces, just like she is sure he can feel hers. He's gaming her, and she can game him back. He doesn't own the patent on flirting, after all.

But it is a game, nothing more. Surely.

(The thought makes her subconsciously swallow, the smile from her eyes falling a bit.)

"You're not answering my question," she replies.

...

The kiss of her breath against his lips is electric, but unsatisfying.

Her words are a whisper, her limbs relaxed, and it would be easy, so easy, for him to take those lips right now.

_Too_ easy.

Beca is never easy.

"That's because I need you to have coffee with me first," he whispers back, fighting away his impulses like a pro. He will need to refuse the all too obvious strategy she's using here. He will have to show her how determined he is, how serious his offer of coffee is. It's not a code for sex, or a fling. It's coffee; what normal people do to get to know each other.

It's not espionage. It's him and her, and two cups of a hot drink.

It is emotional compromise in liquid form.

With the light from the window briefly glancing her features, he can see the smile has fallen slightly from her expression. She knows what he is proposing. This isn't exactly standard operating procedure. He can feel her think, can sense the hesitation from her breathing, right where his fingertips are touching the black fabric over her skin.

He closes his eyes... and waits for her next move. It's chess, and they are playing. But he wants to take a break and have coffee.

...

F... uck. Is he serious?

This little game, this taunting, pushing, pulling... Somewhere between Belarus and here, they (both of them) have inched away from the comforts of professional, bit by bit, all the way up to here, where she can look back at the line, miles away. Shit. It's this stupid weirdo's fault.

He's become this strange little fixture these past months; like a stupid piece of furniture stuck on the walls of her life. The walls that she always puts up everyday without failing regularity. He's that ugly wall lamp, or stupid little ceiling fan; that furniture you want to get rid off, but you can't.

Now, he wants to take it a step further.

Coffee. That means going out of her way to meet him at a place where their work does not exist...

But she is _tired_. She doesn't want to think about this coffee or no coffee, latte, black, with foam, whatever. She doesn't want to consider it or not consider it. She wants to be in a state of mind where she can deny the shit out of actually _thinking_ about going out for a latte with him in Rome.

See? See what she means? _When the fuck did Rome even get in the picture?_

Why was she even in this mess? Oh, right. She owed him.

It would have been better if he were, like, a six, or even a nine, in their profession. She could deal with that. But this guy, this bruised and battered nerd before her, if she were being honest, is a nine point five. At least.

He is one of the best, and he's saved her a few. And... she's grateful for him, too.

Ah, fuck. She doesn't need this right now.

...

"You smell like shit."

As soon as she says them, she is off of him, standing up to go to the kitchen.

Way to burst the bubble, universe. Thanks a lot, universe.

Damnit... do they sell Axe in the Chinese flee market?

Leave it to Beca, horrible enigma that she is, to leave him high and dry. In the worst sense possible. If he had thought she had some trust issues, he realizes that it's worse than he has calculated. Here she is again, business as usual and cold, cold, ice professionalism and pushing him at arms length whenever he gets too close because _she let him_. God, this woman will be his death. Might as well pre-order his gravestone.

"You're a bitch," he says, making sure to lace it with a light tone, even if his disappointment has now dropped to his balls.

"Thanks, you too."

But _oh god_, she smiles at him, and damn.

He is so screwed.

...

Where is that latch?

Beca scrambles in the kitchen, looking for that damned latch. Aha. She sees the small, hidden trap door from behind one of the mattresses, and she tugs on it to find a fully-functioning fridge. She grabs two bottles of beer, courtesy of Stacie when she had founded this safehouse.

She can hear him get up from where he's sitting, walking towards her. Her movements do not betray emotions, because, as much as she is tired tonight, she will have to put up her guard again.

That... whatever that was, earlier, is far too close to home.

"What will it take for you to have coffee with me?" she hears him behind her. God, why does he have to be so persistent?

"Think you can buy me with your charm, Swanson?" she throws over her shoulder, deflecting his question with a skill that only a spy like her can possess. She opens the beer bottle with her teeth before propping herself up on the counter. He's leaning against the panel of the archway, arms crossed over his bare torso, all gross from sweat. He really is stinky, though. So she scrunches her nose at him as he comes up to her to take the other bottle that she has left on the counter.

"Yeah, about that, please avoid saying my name around—"

"I know, I know. I know the drill, Jess. I know how notorious you are, I did my research."

The smug smile that tugs across his disfigured face is, like, the _worst_.

"Oh, don't be a dick," Beca amends, her eyes rolling heavenward, naturally. "I had to."

She was looking for him, so she had infiltrated (with the help of Lilly) parts of the Triplus database. So she knows his name, and a few other choice details about him. James Swanson. His Interpol records were impressive, she'll give him that.

But of course, he smiles that horrible smile that she wants nothing to do with. Cheeky bastard.

"It's not—that's not—look, I hate owing people, okay. So consider us even."

"Really? Cause, last I checked, the score was three to one," says he, the bruised and battered guy who is _alive_ tonight because of her. Score? Really?

She takes a second to tally the damage: 1) Ritz. Fine, so he did save her there, but her ribs were his fault anyway. 2) Bahamas. She fucking saved him there... unless he didn't count it because he wasn't in any real danger from Fat Amy. Ugh. Fine. 3) Las Vegas. FINE. Asshole saved her then... so that's... ugh, whatever.

"Oh wow, we're doing score sheets now? Let me get my whiteboard," she counters a second later, completely un-fascinated by his mathematical skills. She ignores his words of "You're hilarious, you know that?" Damn right, she is. He turns to look at her, both of them side by side on the counter, drinking cold, expired beer. He puts up his first three fingers, and waggles each one in turn:

"One: Ritz. Two: Ritz again. Three: Las Vegas. See?" he says, punctuating the third finger, his thumb, with a gulp from his beer. (She has some issues with that tally, but whatever.) She can see him smile, that charming-ass, disarming smile he gives her. She vaguely wonders if it's possible to catch diabetes from all that ridiculous sweet that his face pulls off.

Wait, did she just think he's... sweet?

Goddamnit.

She rolls her eyes.

It's a strange sort of comfort between the two of them. Beca should _not_ be liking it, but she does. She hasn't let her guard down for so long, sue her. Subpar beer with nice company on a tired evening makes it a little more drinkable.

Then he starts staring at her. She can feel his eyes on the side on her temples, and it is distracting and frankly, annoying. She looks like shit, okay, she knows that. No need to be rude about it.

"Please stop staring at me. The side of my head is really _not_ that fascinating." She wanted to add _why are you such a weirdo?_ but she has a feeling he'd take that as a compliment. And she is _so done_ making him feel nice tonight. God knows, that ego needs no more feeding.

"Sorry."

See? Egotistical, bigheaded—wait, what? Did he just apologize for being creepy?

She turns to look at him, wearing an expression that she hopes would convey how insanely weird he just sounded, since he was never one to apologize for being so not subtle. But when she sees his face, the broken nose and the small, unfinished stitches beneath his eye, with the red, bluish, yellow (all the colors of the Armenian flag, because the universe has a bullshit sense of humor) bruising, one eye smaller than the other, she can't help it.

"Look," she says, before drinking another gulp. She needs alcohol for this shit. "You didn't have to do what you did at The Rocky. I can take care of myself; it's an insult to me to have you do that. I don't need you looking out for me."

That was a lie, actually. Well, half. It's not really an insult to her; she just needed to find an acceptable way to tell him that what she did was still within the bounds of being professional. Ish. But she really doesn't need him to look out for her.

"Yeah, well, you didn't know them, Beca. Now you do." His voice has lowered a bit, and Beca takes this to be a hint. He's aggravated. "I did something I shouldn't have, and I owe Ian a life. So, rather than have him target my family—"

She spit-takes her beer mid-gulp. _He has a family?! Wife and child and all?!_

"Jesus christ, Jesse! You didn't think it would be nice to tell me you were _married!_"

"What?! _No!_ Married? What the—Bec, seriously. You think I'd be the kind of person flirting with you if I were married? I'm not that kind of guy. Jeez..."

Oh. Okay. Fuck.

Embarrassment aside (and there is a shittonne of that to last their future encounters, if ever there would be any), there are several things that she learns from that statement: 1) he's not married, 2) she probably pissed him off just now, because idiot brain makes all the wrong connections when she's tired, and 3) he really was (is...?) flirting with her all this time.

"Sorry, go on."

"What I meant was my parents, and my uncle, and his family. If the Mob finds out about them, I won't be able to protect them," he tells her. "I haven't seen them in the longest time..."

There is a longing in his voice that, despite her personality, breaks her heart.

"How about you?" he continues. "Family? Married? How many kids?"

Ha. That's funny. She scoffs, looks at him, smiling and amused. Only to realize that he thinks it's a legitimate question.

"Oh my god, are you serious? You think it's possible to have actual ties with our work?"

He shrugs. Oh, wow. He's a not just any weirdo; he's a _delusional_ one.

"Go on, I know you have an insult coming. Spit it out," he says.

"No, I mean, just..." her words falter... Family isn't a topic that she likes to think about.

...

"I understand that, you know, you'd... want something like that, but..." she sips her beer, which is almost empty, "that's not for me."

There is something strange coming from her voice; he picks it up almost immediately.

"You wanna talk about it?" he offers. She laughs, dry and humorless. Pained.

"No."

"But you do have a family, right?"

"The Bellas are my family—"

"You know what I mean. Once upon a time."

She looks down, which should have been his first clue. He should not have asked that.

"Yeah, I did." It's all the reply she gives him, before she quickly lugs the rest of the bottle and drops from the counter. She walks away from him. Shit. He's lost her again...

"Bec?"

...

Too, too close to home.

She leans by the window at the other side of the apartment, hoping (against all rational thought) that he'd take a hint and leave her alone, empty beer bottle in one hand, watching the passing lights, and she makes a mental guessing game of what the lights are. Motocycle. Car. Bike. Bike...

He calls her name, but she doesn't answer.

"I wanted to make sure you wouldn't have to spend the rest of your life staying away from the people that mattered to you," she hears him from behind her. He joins her by the window, leaning across from her. She keeps her eyes on the frosted glass, as though watching something infinitely more amusing, even if the glass is point blank and frosted.

Yes, she figured as much. But hearing him vocalize it, it just adds to the complication of everything that they are. And what she does not need, now or ever, are relationships that would complicate her life.

She is fine living her life in the comforts of the odds. If she dies tomorrow, at least she won't be leaving any one person devastated. And she knows that death is a particular, distinct possibility, any day of the week.

But then, he's looking at her. Again.

Ugh.

"You're doing it again."

This time, he doesn't reply, and she doesn't feel him look away. So she looks right back, to rile him up as well.

Wrong move.

Maybe it's how he holds her gaze. For the umpteenth moment this night, he confuses her. For some reason, she cannot tear her eyes away from him. The look he is giving her, two feet away, slowly builds up an irregularity with the way her heart is beating.

And it's an odd (read: fucking weird) thing. The way she's being looked at right now is just...

"Have coffee with me," he says again.

...

He holds her gaze long enough to try to communicate how serious he is. He asks her again. She replies a moment too delayed, he can tell. It's a little success towards the right direction.

"I swear to god, Swanson, say that sentence one more time," she tells him, shaking her head... but smiling to herself. She refocuses on a tiny spot on the window in front of her face, the light scanning her features every time a vehicle rolls past.

"We don't even remotely _like _each other," she adds with an amused laugh.

"Well, I'm not so sure. The opposite of love is indifference, after all."

She rolls her eyes. Total fucking _win_.

But James Swanson isn't done yet. Now, now he understands part of what makes Beca tick. As loud as his innards are telling him to run like hell away from the intensity of this woman, as much as his gut instincts are reminding him about Martina and how messed up his emotional compass is, he cannot shake her. Well... not that he's actually trying.

What he will _try_, though, is get her to have coffee with him.

…

"Why not?" she hears him say.

"What?"

"Us. Why not?"

He is still looking at her, and she is still refusing to look him in the eye on this. She doesn't care if it makes her look weak. His eyes are way too brown for comfort.

Why not? One of the stupidest questions in book. They both know that the answer to that is easy: work. Still, she has a feeling that that's not the answer he's looking for. He knows she's not exactly a model citizen of the rules and regulations of espionage. But that's not why she doesn't want this with him. (She doesn't. She does _not_...)

"Beca, whoever he was... I'm not him."

...

"Maybe," she tells him, before exchanging their bottles and taking a drink from his, which still has some beer left. She takes his shit and leaves him empty-handed. How metaphorical.

And then he gets a ridiculously bright idea. One that they can both enjoy.

"Tell you what: I'll make this into a little bit more of a challenge for us."

She ponders his words, and her eyes are alight with her brilliance. He'll have to step his game up if he wants to see those eyes again.

"Go on."

"Both our organizations want the drive, right? So, in the spirit of getting you to have coffee with me, how about a wager?"

* * *

**AN: **To all the lovely people having their exams and whatnot, this is for you. :) Longest chapter in the book. And this is where I will have to leave you before I update again. I hope you liked it, and I am sorry... I cannot write fluff for shit... I don't even know if this counts... But the general gist is, Jesse will do whatever it takes to get Beca to go out with him. And I mean, _whatever it takes. _:)) The Bellas and Trebles would be going head-to-head soon. So, you know, stick around for that?

Everything nice about this chapter is because of my Beta. That is all.

And if ya'll don't know what fic I'm subtly dropping with the whole coffee thing... shame on yer faces. ;)

Review? Was it a general mess? What did you love/hate about it? OMG did I miss anything? :( Anything you want to see in particular? Drop me a line in my message? :) Thank you so much for reading this, guys. BLESS YO FACES.


	20. Stubborn Love

SUNDAY, THE BELLATORUM HQ (LOS ANGELES): 0957

(One week later...)

Blue.

That's the first thing that Beca feels against her sweaty skin. A soft blue.

The grossest color know to existence: blue.

The speed with which Beca's brain cells unanimously decide that she hates such an unassuming color is the direct result of Aubrey's tackling her against the blue mat of the Bellatorum practice gym.

"You," Aubrey states as a huff of air, between panting, "WHAT?!"

Beca's Aubrey-senses start tingling, as she immediately recognizes the proximity of Aubrey's rage meter to explosion. Shit. This is a really bad time to break it to her. Aubrey has her pinned down on the mat by the power of sheer, blond rage.

"I—" Beca starts, but it's a little hard to complete a sentence when your boss's thighs are locked on either side of your head, while your own thigh is twisted in a godawful position. In another life, she and Aubrey would look fantastic as pretzels.

"Fuck... Bree..." Beca breathes, but barely, because Aubrey's thighs are like a goddamn python. "Let me... finish..." Aubrey is possibly a millimeter close to snapping her neck off. Oh boy.

"You made a deal with the Triplus?!" Beca can't tell if Aubrey is asking, accusing, or is justifying killing her right now.

"I can't... me... breathe..." The last syllable sounds like an angelic little wheeze from Beca.

...

TRIPLUS MAIN HQ, (NEW YORK): 1258

(Same day)

There is a collective WTF!? moment that escapes the members of the Triplus, who are having pizza for lunch in the Triplus headquarters kitchen. Kolio drops his phone, Unicycle spills coffee on his precious abs, Benji hits his head against the table when he tries to stand up from looking for his Ace of Hearts, and Bumper's spoonful of Cheerio's (because he has a weird habit of eating breakfast at lunch) stop halfway on its travel from the bowl to his mouth.

"You... WHAT?!"

All of them stare at Jesse, who shrugs apologetically.

...

Aubrey releases Beca, and Beca gasps for air. Aubrey is behind her, catching breath as well. But that doesn't mean that the tension in the air is clear, oh no.

"Jeez, Bree... you almost... killed..." Beca starts, feeling her neck to see if it's still intact.

"WHAT THE HELL, BECA?! Are you out of your mind?!" Ha. If Beca had a dollar for every time Aubrey questioned her sanity, she could buy her own damn jet. The woman is clearly on the verge of a nucleartastic breakdown. Great.

What started out as a little sparring session turned deadly as Aubrey and Beca conversed about the events of late, between throwing half-punches and friendly tackles. Things started to go not-so-friendly the moment Beca volunteers the information (really bad idea) of a wager between the Trebles, and the Bellas. At which point, Aubrey's relatively safe lock around Beca's limbs turned hugely scary. Motivated blonds are terrifying.

"Let me finish, okay? God..." Beca says, catching her breath and sitting down to face her boss, who is steadying herself against her knees, panting. Whether it is from the exhaustion or from the impending panic attack, Beca's not sure.

"If this is... another one of your horrible ideas, Beca—" At this point, Aubrey looks about ready to transform into a huge, green monster.

...

"You are... absolutely..."

"Dude!"

"... insane!"

"You are... kidding, right?"

"What the hell were you thinking, man?"

But Jesse takes it all with an innocent look to his huge eyes as he tries to bit of the string of mozzarella connecting his mouth to the slice. All the Trebles are looking at him with such comical looks, that he can't help but think he could Instagram this moment.

"Why are you all so worried," Jesse replies, mid-mouthful of pizza. "It's not like they're gonna win," he tells them, and the Trebles ponder the thought with an equally collective confidence.

"'Sides," Jesse says, right before taking another bite on his slice, avoiding the bellpeppers because he hates bellpeppers, "I've got a plan."

"You better fucking have one, Swanson, because I'm not losing our jet to those dumb bitches," Bumper finally speaks up, shrugging it off as well, and finally pushing that last spoonful of Cheerio's into his fat mouth.

...

MONDAY

(7 days before operation...)

"The Triplus jet. And a head start at catching the drive, but mostly, the jet."

Aubrey's expression changes. Everyone's does.

In conference room C of the Bellatorum HQ, all the Bellas stop what they're doing to just gape at Beca, who had just explained what's at stake...

.:.

* * *

_"I'm listening." Beca narrows her eyes as she says the words. Hmm... the nerd wants a wager._

_"What happened to London?" Jesse is asking about the fact that her last words to him in Las Vegas were about the next lead for the drive._

_"Nothing yet. The operation is a no-go. It's scheduled in two weeks."_

_"Great," Jesse's smile morphs from charming to devious (but still slightly charming... no wait. Shut up, Mitchell). "I propose a race to get to the next lead there, since we'll both probably be working on that same operation. Of course, the first prize is exclusive possession of the information... But if the Triplus get to it first, you go out with me."_

_"Coffee?"_

_"Yeah, coffee. Right."_

_"And if you don't? What happens if we win? What's in it for me?"_

_She sees him racking his brains, thinking about what could possibly get her interested in his little game..._

_"How about... the Triplus jet."_

_What._

_The Triplus Jet is a Citation X, 43,000 feet in 30 mins, at mach 0.92, that's 313 meters per _second_..._

_She isn't able to help the automatic reaction of her eyes, widening against her sockets. His arms are crossed over his bare chest, still leaning across the window, across from her, and he has that face of a smug bastard who just won the lottery, because, okay, she's not hiding her shock here. Is he... serious?!_

_"Are you serious? You're fucking with me..."_

_He lets out an amused chuckle that is irritatingly smooth. (Ugh.)_

_"As much as _I wish I were_, I'm serious here," he replies. And he just waits for her to give her verdict on the proposition, as she scans his face for any hint of deceit in those swollen eyes, any lies written on his biceps, which his crossed arms bring into glorious perfection..._

_(Oh god. No, Mitchell. Get a grip.)_

_"That's not it," she says, focusing (trying, at least) on something other than his shirtless form. "That's not a fair deal; what are you hiding?" She squints up at him, because it is too good to be true. Sure enough, a smirk teases her from across the window._

_"Well, think of it this way," he starts, the sound of his super chill tone making her wary as he shifts his weight on the wall across her. "When I take you out—"_

_"Oh, wow." She doesn't miss his cocky use of the interrogative adverb "when"._

_"—Let me finish. When I have coffee with you, it'll take us at least half the day to get to where I wanna have that coffee, plus the actual, you know, drinking the coffee, and another half-day to bring you home for curfew, which I'm sure your Bella leader strictly enforces. So, to save us both the time and hassle, when I win—"_

_"You're really pushing it, aren't you?"_

_"—Yes, well, _when _I win, you'll be gone from the Bellas for at least a whole day."_

_"At most."_

_"At least."_

_Smug asshole._

_"And during that time," he continues, ignoring the way she pointedly mocks him with her I-really-don't-think-so expression, "you would not be participating in a mission with the Bellas. Because you're with me. And I get to choose when."_

_Oh. Now she gets it. And as much as she feels flattered that he is basically saying that the Triplus are at a great advantage if Beca isn't in the picture (because, well, she's the best), the playing field is not quite fair yet. She's still a little suspicious..._

_"Also," Jesse adds, "you can't take it against us if we, uh..." she can tell, he's looking for a way to put this nicely,"steal from you. Ever again. I know, I know, seems a bit excessive. Don't get me wrong, I'm really not for sabotaging your operations and stealing your stuff, but I gotta level the playing field for this wager. I mean, If you want the jet."_

_Her eyes bug out slightly, only slightly, because that is a pretty hefty request. The Trebles' severe lack of ethics on that part have been what has kept Aubrey, and all of the Bellas, justified in their hatred of the other organization. What he's asking is a clean slate from the Bellatorum. This means the Bellas won't have the ethical right to retaliate, ever. Beca takes a few moments to weigh the consequences..._

_Still, a chance at the Triplus Jet? This makes the deal pretty fair._

_And all is fair in love and war, after all._

_This? This is the latter._

_"Alright. It's on," she replies after a few moments of pondering._

_"Seal the deal with a kiss?"_

_"You got lucky tonight, Swanson. Don't push it."_

_"That makes sense, especially because it's not like you weren't just _ogling_ me right now." His all-too-serious tone is meant to annoy her._

_"Right. You're about as fascinating as a car crash." Her affectionate tone is purified sarcasm._

_"And yet, you can't take your eyes off me... It's a good thing we're going to be best friends and/or lovers."_

_Oh no, he didn't._

_As much as Beca would like to finish off Hennrick's work on Jesse's future as a father, It's hard to hate the huge, shit-eating grin he gets from teasing her when his face looks like a puzzle that a toddler has put together. So, Beca settles with the traditional, playful banter that she has grown to give and take from him._

_"Oh my god, did that one bottle of beer get you wasted already? Are you drunk right now, or do you just have, like, no regard whatsoever for your nuts?"_

_Jesse winces. That got to him alright._

_"A little below-the-belt much?"_

_"You asked for it," she replies, with a non-too-sublte self-satisfied grin of her own. Across from her, he chuckles. Still wearing that infamous grin that has her questioning all her previously-held beliefs about sincerity in their world, behind layers of finesse and a very black eye, she knows he's just one huge dork with an absolutely lame sense of humor._

_"Oh come on, Bec. You know we're perfect for each other," he starts again, and there is just no stopping him is there? She rolls her eyes._

_"You're a spy, I'm a spy... We'd make perfect spy babies. It's inevitable," he adds._

_Did he just... spy babies? Really? _Really?_ The guy redefines "unsubtle" and brings the word to new heights. (But the amusement fades from her eyes just as fast.)_

_"Anybody ever tell you how lame you are?"_

_"You mean 'cute'," he corrects._

_"Annoying."_

_"Persistent."_

_"Weirdo!" She finally throws the last word to halt... whatever it is that's happening here. This strange comfortability around this maybe-stranger, who is also not quite._

_"So are you." He laughs at her right back, his body shaking in laughter just as hers is. This is a strange night, and maybe "weirdo" is an appropriate term for both of them. The odd thing about that is... she doesn't mind. But she kind of minds that she doesn't mind... However, she will think about that another day._

_"Also," Jesse says, serious this time. "If we're gonna do this, we need to have some ground rules..."_

.:.

* * *

The Bellas are hushed around the big round table that serves as the center piece for conference room C. Thinking whatever the hell happened table manners, Beca lets out a loud cough that she hopes would coax the Bellas into giving their opinions on the matter. So far, only Lilly has shown the least bit of responsiveness, changing her look from _distant _to _within acceptable radius_.

_Come on, guys. Bear with me here._

Fat Amy is the first one to speak up.

"Wait, so you just... agreed? He randomly made a wager for the documents, and you agreed?"

"Yeah," Beca replies, not even remotely telling the whole truth about the central idea behind this bet.

"Are you sure? 'Cause if there's one thing I pegged Mr. Hotshot Treble for, he's not the competitive type," Amy offers.

"Yeah, he seems pretty nice," Chloe muses.

"You're asking me if I'm sure that's what happened?" Beca replies, sarcasm intended. Out of the corner of her eyes, she feels Aubrey scrutinizing her expression. For sure, one wrong intonation, and Aubrey would know something's up.

Beca takes a deep breath. She hasn't exactly told them the entire bet; as far as they know, the Trebles want to be able to keep on stealing from the Bellas without fear of retaliation, and it's just a race for the next lead. She didn't tell them that she would have to go out with Jesse. Instead of telling them that, though, she decides to distract them with details.

"Also, um, we had to come up with rules of engagement," she says.

Wait, no. Wrong phrasing. Stacie and Amy give her that singular look they have that represents probably half of the world's kinky. "Ew, no, I don't mean—"

"What kind of rules?"

"Didn't really peg Mr. Hotshot Treble as a kinky freak, but okay."

"It's not—"

"You sold yourself for a chance at the jet?!" Chloe joins into the totally _illogical_ assumption of Stacie and Amy, which Beca is finding more and more difficult to control. "Oh my god, Beca..."

"Don't you need, like, a contract for that kind of thing?"

"Do you have a safe word?"

"As long as you use protection," C-Rose adds calmly.

"Yea—no, protection's not gonna cut it when there are, like, paddles involved." Amy speaks from experience.

"PADDLES?!" Jessica looks scared for life.

"Did he make you sign a non-disclosure agreement?"

"Did you talk to your lawyer about it first?" Ashley says. She's the Bella who studied law, after all.

"Just make sure you use stainless steel chains. Trust me hon. Rope burns are a bitch." Stacie speaks from possibly even more experience.

("Don't drink and drive" is Lilly's quiet contribution to the conversation... the fact that that made sense given the context is both enlightening and horrifying.)

Beca watches in slow-motion horror as the wrong assumption sinks into the other Bellas, who have now taken to discussing the very sexual nature of the "rules" that Beca has just mentioned, which is totally _untrue_ on fifty different levels.

"Seriously guys—"

God, sometimes, she just hates Amy and Stacie.

"So... there's sex involved?"

Jessica's one question snaps Beca back from her mental collection.

"NO. You guys, that is not what I meant!"

The Bellas finally hush. (Beca ignores Stacie's pointed "What? Why not?") She takes the time to finish the briefing.

The wager is this: the Bellas and the Trebles race for the next lead when it comes to the drive. The lead in London. So far, while working together to avoid the CIA, the two organizations have also been sharing leads and information about the whereabouts of the drive. Nevertheless, Beca's little stunt with the Armenian Mob (which wasn't in any way condoned by Aubrey, fyi) coincided with the dying down down of the CIA's hunt for them. As luck would have it, Beca's pissing off the entire Mob apparently got the CIA really excitable; after three days, the Data and Logistics Division of the Bellatorum (which is composed of one Lilly Onakuramara, and no one else) informed everyone that the overly-excitable CIA have withdrawn their resources from hunting down the organizations, to hunting down one famous Armenian Mob Boss, who had thrown a hissy fit and burned several empty (but still expensive) yachts. It just so happens that one of those yachts had belonged to a senator, so yeah. The CIA had reorganized its priorities accordingly.

So now, the Bellas and Trebles are back to ground zero: mutual loathing and sworn hatred against each other.

Now, both organizations are back to wanting the drive, that cursed piece of plastic containing god knows what.

"The operation is simple..." Aubrey starts, briefing the Bellas on what is about to happen, but throwing Beca an exasperated look that says _if this goes wrong, this is all your fault._

...

* * *

The Bellatorum and Triplus brief their members on this race of an operation...

Location: London, Great Britain

Objective: Extract valuable documents from Target, before he makes the drop.

Details: Target will be coming in from a flight from Monaco. Target will be at the location airport at 1025, Monday. He will be carrying with him valuable information in the form of documents, most likely in his leather carry-on. He is assumed to be scheduled to meet with several potential buyers, in order to exchange this information. The goal is to intercept these documents before he can make a sale.

* * *

...

"Who's the target?" Stacie asks. Aubrey looks to Beca.

"Daniel Rivers."

...

"Daniel Rivers," Jesse tells the whole Triplus in their HQ/luxury bachelor pad this side of North America. He gives himself a well-deserved pause in order to arrest the annoying little images that flash in his brain, that night in Las Vegas. With Beca... and that target.

"What? But we already had him at the Rocky," Greg asks, his semi-spiky hair gelled to perfection.

"Yeah, and he got away," Donald replies for him.

"In any case, we didn't know that he had the information. Now we do," Bumper adds, addressing his entire team in the conference room. He's a little ecstatic at the thought of beating the Bellas, yet again. "And our job is to get to that information before the Bellas do. So suck up your balls, gentlemen. We are going to London!"

"Hang on, Bumper," Jesse addresses the Trebles, "All of you, listen up. Since this is an official wager between us and the Bellas, there are rules you can't break."

The Trebles whine in protest, because manly men don't have rules. It's a good thing that their testosterones respect Jesse.

"Rules? Dude, your estrogen levels are at an all-time high," Bumper comments, grimacing at Jesse's killing the mood.

...

TUESDAY

(6 days to operation...)

"What are the rules again?"

The Bellas are in the gym, and it is but a few more days before the major operation in London. Beca is running on the treadmill when Stacie asks her to recount what needs to happen, so she does so in between huffs of breath.

"One: we can't count on outside resources... Two: we can't make a move until the target is in Britain, and—"

"Okay, so we'll totally catch him from Monaco, right?" Stacie asks, thinking two steps ahead to break the rules in order to win this wager.

"No."

"Cool. So when do we... wait, what did you say?"

Beca keeps running, as the other Bellas realize that that was the wrong, monosyllabic answer. Yes, there is the assumption that they will need to get to the documents first, by getting to the target before he even gets to Britain. And any other operation, she certainly wouldn't think twice about double-crossing her competition and doing whatever it takes to get to those documents. It's the game.

But she gave Jesse her word, and she knows he's going to keep his.

"We're not gonna cross them, Stacie."

"What do you mean?" C-Rose drops her weights in order to partake in the discussion, "They'll probably just cross us first. It's a given... right? The Trebles will try to get the documents from the target while he's still in Monaco and—"

"No..." Beca pants, "They won't."

Chloe, brisk walking on one of the treadmills, has now turned to look at her Beca beside her, who is running with a calm, even pace.

"What aren't you telling us?" Stacie stops her sit-ups, places her arms from the back of her head to across her chest. Her eyes narrow to teeny-tiny slits. "You may be a very good liar, Beca but—"

Just then, Fat Amy enters the premises with a towel slung over one shoulder. "What, good liars, what?" she enquires. After the events in New York, Chinatown, once the Trebles have gone away, Fat Amy has reappeared at HQ, insisting that she has severe allergies to dickwads in the shape of a certain Treble, whose names start with the letter 'B'. But since he's not going to be around anymore, she's back in the game.

"Beca's not telling us something," Stacie answers, her arms still crossed over her chest.

One look at Beca, and Amy gets that nasty little smirk she always does whenever she knows something's up. And if there's one thing that makes Amy valuable to their profession, it's that she's a damn great wrestler... and she knows everything.

Everything.

Beca can just... feel the impending doom of getting ratted out, but she can't help it. When Amy smirks at her that way, from the reflection of the gym mirrors, she has to roll her eyes.

"Yeah, Beca," Fat Amy starts, tauntingly sweet. "What _are_ you not telling us about this wager?"

Beca keeps running. Her evil troll of a friend is not going to get anything out of her.

Chloe has now stopped her treadmill in order to join Stacie and C-Rose in the ranks of those who are patiently annoying Beca with their stares. Because Beca has nerves of steel though, she pretends to be unaffected.

(In reality: _Goddamnit Amy, I could kill you right now_.)

Just when the suspense is getting to be too much (and Beca is running out of breath from running too hard, afraid to stop and face their questions), Lilly bursts into the gym, bless her soul.

"Guys," she says in her tiny voice. She was always better at speaking in zeroes and ones. "I think you might wanna see this..."

Curious, the Bellas casually follow to where Lilly leads them to the screen of her computer. Playing on the screen is a Japanese news clip, featuring what seems to be heavy traffic in Tokyo.

("Lilly, what is she saying? Translate for us."

"I was born in Florida.")

The Bellas crowd around Lilly's computer screen, cheeks almost touching each other's, as they watch the images play out carefully. And then a birds-eye-view of the road traffic is shown, shot from a helicopter. Taking up around approximately half a kilometer of highway space are the following words, spelled out in trails of rose petals. Like, probably several gallons of it:

DEAR WEIRDO, YOU KNOW YOU WANNA HAVE COFFEE WTIH ME. Love, your favorite T

End clip. The Japanese newscaster starts talking about other world news, but it's too late. The image has already been seared into their minds.

_Goddamnit, Swanson._

Beca closes her eyes. Any second now...

"Beca... did a Triplus operative just..."

"Do you know anything about this?"

"Are you... said 'weirdo'?"

"Is he talking to you? This spells Treble all over it... but in... a _flirty_ way..."

"Oh my god, _is he flirting with you?_"

"What aren't you telling us? Details, woman!"

(If she made a run for it now, she could maybe get back on the treadmill fast enough to—)

"What's that?" Aubrey rounds the corner into Lilly's workspace, where all nine of the Bellas are crowded, mouths agape at what they just read. Coffee still hot in her hand, suit pristinely pressed to get her ready for another day's work.

"Well, hell if we know," Amy remarks, reaching for the keyboard to replay the entire clip, while the Bellas return their eyes to the screen for a second viewing. Aubrey squeezes her way between the faces, and watches as Beca's Treble love letter unfolds before her eyes, causing traffic and public disturbance in Tokyo. Beca takes the time to distance herself from the rest of the girls.

When the clip ends, they wordlessly turn towards her.

"Yeah, about the wager..."

Damnit. She's going to face an eternity of endless jokes and puns about this.

After explaining to them what the real wager is, and of how Jesse wants to take her out for coffee ("Is 'coffee' an international code for something else—" "No."), she makes a lame excuse to go to the shower, before she hears another "Beware of Treble", "Smells like Treble..." and "I knew you were Treble when you walked in" jokes from literally _everyone_.

She is _so_ going to kill him for this.

(But the thought is made while she's smiling, for some strange reason.)

But as always, when it comes to Jesse Swanson, she should have known that one instance isn't going to be enough.

...

* * *

The highway in Tokyo was first.

The next day, five days to operation, Beca gets a call from Chloe at six in the morning, which is bloody murder at any other circumstance. Unfortunately, 'bloody murder' is no such luck for her.

Apparently, some brilliant hacker had decided it would be a good idea to rearrange the letters of "Google" to spell out the words "It's inevitable", with a little note at the lower corner: "love, T". While the Bellas try to wrack their brains on the possibility that this _might, maybe _be a hidden message from the Triplus, just when Beca thinks it couldn't possibly (_it could not_) get worse, facing infinite questions from the Bellas, a few hours later, the letters are made to spell out, yup, her _name_. Innocent internet users must now ponder what meaningful historical event her name must represent, because obviously, Google is celebrating some kind of Beca Day. Beca has Lilly take the whole thing down in about five minutes, but the damage to her ego has been irrevocably done.

(And then she has to explain, and _file an actual report_, about the words "it's inevitable", and why Jesse stated that, spy babies and all.)

As if that wasn't enough to rile her up, the next day (four days to operation), she gets a call from a frikkin _beer company_, telling her that a certain "Ms. Beca the Bella" has just won a lifetime's supply of Heineken.

(She just might feel compelled to drown someone in beer, the next time she hears another "_Weiss_ so serious?" and "For richer and for _pourer_", courtesy of C-Rose and Stacie's extensive knowledge of all things alcohol.)

But, no. She will reserve her strength for when she would see the person that she would like to drown very much.

_Damnit, Swanson._

(Still, she laughs at some of the more clever puns, and she forgets about wanting to skin his ass alive. It's been a while since she's laughed like this.)

* * *

...

FRIDAY

(3 days to operation...)

"Yes, I know, Stace. I got your mocha latte... really... (Beca rolls her eyes while flicking on the left-turn signal light, phone pressed between her head and shoulder)... can we stop it with the Treble jokes already..."

"Oh come on, Shawshank," Amy says from shotgun, "It's just... too much Treble for us."

Stacie hears her, and there is a godawful amount of laughter from the other end of the phone. Beca has to wonder what has happened to her life. Driving down sunset boulevard, she is tasked with getting everyone's morning coffees, as "punishment" for "fraternizing with the enemy". Chloe's idea of a joke, and Stacie's idea of getting out of coffee runs (for fraternizing with _everyone_).

"You see, Shawshank, just give us the juicy details of your Treble encounter and the safehouse sex you must've had, and we'll let you off the hook, just like that... _beer_ the change you want to see in the world," Fat Amy comments from behind her huge-ass sunglasses. She just couldn't resist to add that last pun.

"I'm not—yes, NO, Stacie—I'm not, it's not a big deal, okay. It's just a... random thing, and no, there was no—shut up Stacie!—sex, like none. How could you even... what is up with that conclusion anyway? Seriously. Why are you all trying to ruin my life," Beca chuckles to both Amy and Stacie. She already has one, fully-functional Treble on that particular endeavor, she doesn't need any more spies to try to embarrass her at every turn.

"Put her on speaker phone," Amy suggests, while simultaneously taking Beca's phone, pressing "speakerphone" and placing it on the dashboard.

"Hey, Stacie! You're on speaker phone!" Fat Amy belts at the phone.

_"As I was saying, Beca, the fact that you're in denial—"_

"I am _not_ in denial."

"That is exactly what a person in denial would say," Fat Amy comments.

"I hate you guys so much."

_"—means that, you know, that Treble guy... what did you call him?"_

"Mr. Hotshot Treble," Amy replies. Beca does not approve.

_"Yeah, him. Anyway, he probably means more to you, even if you don't know it. Psych fact, Becs. You're into this guy."_ Ah, Stacie. Psychoanalyzing the shit out of you since 1989.

"Hanging up now," Beca says, cutting it off before another beer joke, Treble pun, or glaringly annoying (_slightly accurate_) analysis could waft its way out the phone. When the few moments of quiet pass, Amy speaks up.

"You know—"

"Don't you dare, Amy," Beca snarks back, stopping all possible conversations about Jesse, because such a conversation with her best friend would only lead to a lot of questions, which she has yet to answer for herself. Questions like "what happened" and "who is he" and "why does he want to go out with you" are all a little too personal, and she doesn't want to be reminded of the kiss at the Ritz. That might open up the possibility of why she went and saved his sorry ass from the Armenian Mob without the Bellatorum's consent, and really. She doesn't know how to explain her actions other than the fact that she has, maybe, only a little bit, considered him like, (in a teeny, tiny way) a... non-stranger...

Who wants to have coffee with her. Wait, slash that. Who has made it his _life goal_ to have coffee with her, apparently.

(Slight warning bells for Beca here, but she convinces herself that she is still very much in control of the situation.)

"Alright, alright, calm your mammaries," Amy says, taking on the defensive. "I'm not going to say that Stacie has a point—"

"You just did."

"—and I'm not going to tell you how I think that... you're kind of... different. Just saying."

This comment makes Beca pause her focus on driving. Different? What kind of different? What does she mean? "What are you talking about?"

"Nope, sorry. I promised my friend I'm not gonna talk about it, so..." Amy mimics zipping her mouth. Beca wants to _kill_ her, stupid reverse psychology tactics.

"Damnit, Amy, don't be a dick," is her reply, her tone is screaming _I hate you so much right now._

"Well, if you insist on this conversation, then okay."

"You're a bitch."

"No need to shower me with compliments, it's still early in the morning. But all I'm saying is... you know... you seem a little bit more..." Amy struggles for words, drawing it out like this morning's toothpaste.

"What? Just tell me."

"Smiley."

"Smiley?"

"Yeah. Like, you generally wake up on the right side of the bed nowadays."

"As opposed to?"

"As opposed to, you know, waking up with a dingo in your thong."

"I do _not_ wake up with a dingo in my thong, whatever that means... What do you mean by 'smiley'?"

"Eh, you know. Smiley. It's what people do when they're happy. I know it must be a foreign concept to you, but people actually do smile. And lately, you've been smiling a bit more and... like, killing a bit less, so that's nice."

"What? No... I'm just same as always, what are you talking about?" Beca replies, suddenly feeling defensive. Of course, Amy notices this.

"Well, well. Why so defensive, Ms. _I'm always in control of my emotions_? Don't like the idea that Mr. Hotshot Treble has that effect on you?"

"I'm not even gonna reply to that." Though, her reply is coupled by a smirk that she can't help.

"Pleading the fifth, I see. Weak move, Shawshank. Only the guilty plead the fifth. And don't get me wrong, 'evil' You is a treat, but sometimes, it's nice to have a change of scenery. You're just _so_ consistent with hating the world, I often forget what you look like when you smile... You know when I last saw you smile? And I mean, _really_ smile?"

Beca tries to recall, but she has no memory of such a thing. She shakes her head.

"When I picked you up from the airport from New York after you saved your man candy. You sat right here," Amy motions at her shotgun seat, "and you looked like you rolled around in a puddle of Koala poop, but when you closed your eyes to sleep, you were smiling... It was really creepy, that you were smiling, I mean. I thought about taking you to the emergency room, because you must have inhaled some heavy drugs or something, but now, it all makes sense."

A small, contemplative "huh" is all Beca can reply to that. So, according to her best friend, she smiles a little more nowadays. Possibly because of... Jesse? It's a possibility, but not a probability. People smile for a lot of reasons. A successful operation is one. Not getting choked by a two-hundred-pound hunk of a woman is another. Surely, there must be other factors that cause her allegedly "smiley" state.

And yes, Jesse is one of them. _But_... (and this is an emphatic, abrupt cut in her train of thought about him) he's not the _sole_ reason...

_Is he?_

"Whoa, don't hurt yourself there, Flatbutt," Amy suddenly says, only now noticing the deep furrows where Beca's brows had previously been smooth and uncaring. "Don't overthink it... you don't want to overthink it. This is my advice to you: don't do that, you know, that thing that you do wherein you panic and overheat and next thing I know, I'm getting called out of retirement in Tasmania to save your flat and starved butt from a Russian prison, which I would of course do again in a heartbeat, but you know how well that went last time."

Amy's tone is affectionate, and yes, it's a taboo topic, Amy knows this, but Beca knows that Amy has a point.

"Speaking of ice cream..." Amy starts, redirecting the conversation to something lighter.

While Amy takes a sudden segue into discussing food, as she usually does whenever she talks, Beca does not know what to make of this weird revelation. (And though Amy tells her not to overthink it, of course that is _exactly_ what she does.) Different, Amy said. _Smiley_, even. Strange vocabulary aside, has she really been that different? It's not like she thinks about him all the time. Not even remotely _most_ of the time. She doesn't think about him. Ish... is thinking about the wager on the same level as thinking about him? Of course not. She is focused on the impending mission, on how she and Aubrey have organized the play so they can bring home a much-deserved Triplus jet, and perhaps cripple the other organization so that they won't be compelled to steal from the Bellatorum as often...

Then again, thinking about the operation has gotten her mind off of some of the more heavy things that have constantly plagued her. So okay, maybe (she begrudgingly admits) this operation has provided a temporary distraction, an escape clause, from constantly thinking about trying to get on another plane, on the next mission, and cycle of endless missions that is her life. Maybe she's glad that Jesse, that stupid dork, has provided enough of a distraction by being his stupid self, doing all these stupid things and getting himself into all these stupid life-threatening shits that she always feels compelled to get him out of. Maybe she likes looking after him (ew, gross, she's not his _babysitter_ okay, but it is what it is) in a way, because he has this carefree attitude that (unfortunately) complements her very precise attitude when it comes to missions. And he was her partner. Acquaintance... good acquaintance...

So, okay. He is a _friend_. But she's not about to admit that. Certainly, not to Amy.

Who has suddenly stopped talking, lowering her shades with her mouth agape. Beca spares a side glance to see her friend in a state of shock.

"Why are you—"

She's not able to complete the sentence when Amy squishes her mouth to bring her face to look outside... up, up... on the billboard.

On a series of billboards.

Addressed to _her_:

_Dearest B_, the first one says. A few meters forward, another one pops up:

_I'm taking you down..._

And another, a little farther down the road:

_And out..._

_For coffee..._

_Love,_

_your weirdo._

_:)_

He ends with a smiley face. Literally, an entire billboard, with a smiley face. Seven consecutive billboards on Sunset Boulevard addressed to her, just to tell her that he's "taking her down".

Beca absently stares for a while at the final billboard, unable to function. It takes three horns from the car behind them for her to snap out of it and realize that Amy has her phone out, and is now probably tweeting the pictures. The next five minutes are spent wrestling with Amy, who is trying to get her to turn the car around in order to take pictures of the rest of the public declaration. She gets a ticket for reckless driving.

Aw, shit. What the hell did she get herself into.

But no matter. She resolves to prove him wrong. The best way revenge is success, after all. She'll win that Jet from the Triplus; we'll see how he plans on international travel then.

* * *

**AN: **A whole lot of crockery that I pulled out of my ass just because I miss you guys. This chapter was only made decent by my ever-wondeful Beta, _ohchan. _Also, I must apologize, because I feel like I missed something. But I had a whole lot of fun writing this chapter, and it's all going to (hopefully) make sense. :) You are all too wonderful. You guys make me want to keep writing.

[ps. On a side note, all is quiet in our little Beca/Jesse town. I hope you guys are doing okay with your finals and such. Many thanks to my Beta and to Tiff, for taking the time to pm me. I love you guys.]

Next up: London. _Catch Me if You Can... _who do you guys wanna win? Team Jesse or Team Beca? Other options open, feel free to let your voices ring true!


	21. Up in the Air

The Greeks have a saying: οὔ με πείσεις, κἂν με πείσῃς

"You will not convince me even if you do convince me."

The literal meaning of this basic concept is quite apt for individuals who have the need to master the art of professional skepticism. Individuals such as politicians, or philosophers. Or spies.

Beca Mitchell is one such spy. Beca Mitchell will not take your shit.

And even when presented with all evidence, she will be cynical of you.

Even when the evidence comes from her own cynical self.

..:..

* * *

COTE D'AZUR INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT (NICE, FRANCE): 0745

The busiest airport this corner of the country, and Beca has yet to savor the smell of cafes, lovemaking, and the French Riviera in the air. She's too busy clacking her heels in a brisk walk to board her flight.

"Billet, s'il vous plaît."

Beca hands the nice lady her ticket. The one she had swiped from the unassuming blond American woman three passengers down the line from herself. Sunglasses covering her eyes (douchebaggy as it is indoors), she glances all over the busy boarding area, trying to glimpse any interested parties, anyone who might cause her some unwelcome... Treble.

She catches herself smirk at the pun, immediately accusing her traitorous brain for coming up with that one.

She gives the lady a tight-lipped smile, and walks on, about to take her seat in first class, next to one Daniel Rivers.

...

The Play (Expectations):

_"We know that the Trebles have the exact same information that we have about this lead, and they know our playbook just like we know theirs. This isn't going to be by the books, ladies. We'll have to go step-by-step on this one..."_

_Aubrey briefs her Bellas on the upcoming mission, and what has to be done in order to take the Trebles down. With the help of Beca's knack for the unexpected, they just might have this in the bag._

...

The Operation (Reality):

A nice-enough young man sips his airplane champaign in first class, mindlessly busying himself with a little light reading, when a he hears a strangely familiar voice, that same Saxony-German accent reminding him of Las Vegas.

"Hey," she says. The mouth on that chiseled jawline quirks upward before he even puts down his book to look up at her.

"Hey yourself."

With a practiced air of charm, Beca glides herself to the seat next to Daniel Rivers, (deemed Target of the Day), not once breaking his stare, every inch of her flirting in every way. "Whatcha got there," she says, angling her head ever-so-slightly to make a show of trying to glimpse the book he'd just put down, and showing off the curve of her neck in effect.

"Excuse me, miss, but do I know you?"

Of course, he would play the flirting game. The tilted smile he has is only too obvious. In reply, she allows a very slow, very steady smile to creep on her lips.

"I don't know. Do you?"

He puts on a troubled look, as though trying to remember a vague memory. "Now, I would normally say 'no' because how can I forget such a beautiful face, but in your case, I would have to make an exception. Especially because if there's one thing I tend to remember more than beautiful faces, it's the ones that leave me high and dry." His tone is casual and joking, and still very much interested, but she knows he's playing at the guilty card. She bites her lips and bashfully looks away.

But of course, Beca is a living, walking magnet for trouble. Or, more accurately...

"Hey, Lara, sweetheart, are you sure these are our—Oh, well now."

_Sonofabitch._

While smooth sailing has never really been Beca's style, as she's very much adept at handling most anything that would be so unfortunate as to disrupt her operations, for once, _just once_, she'd like to be able to get her flirt on without a certain Jesse goddamn Swanson popping out of nowhere.

"Would you look at that!" he says, putting on a surprised face at their "unexpected" seatmate. Since the seats are grouped by fours, Jesse takes his sassy gay ass over to the seat, right across Beca. Because she is an operative, she only lets on a fraction of the internal ambush he just commenced.

"I know you!" Jesse comments, flicking a womanly gesture at the Target while crossing his legs and harassing Beca's ever-decreasing levels of calm. "Well, isn't this funny? Lara, sweetheart, it's our friend from Las Vegas!"

"I know." The words come out nicely enough. She hopes the Target doesn't notice how much it's forced through the screw-on smile and gritted teeth.

"Yeah, well, Mr. Rivers, right? You remember us, Jesse and Lara, from the Rocky Hotel."

"Of course, how can I forget." Polite as always, but Beca can sense his slight disappointment in the appearance of Jesse the Third Wheel. _You and me both, buddy._

The problem isn't so much that Jesse is very present in the middle of her position in this operation (god, why couldn't they have sent _anyone else_), but that he's chatting up the Target with that effectual charm, and the sad truth is that, with him in the conversation, she can't run her play. She watches him carry the discussion with just so much finesse, despite being effectively _gay_ and supposedly _not_ the object of the target's attraction. Still, his eyes light with a spark, that tiny hint of genuineness that is too natural for her to try to fake. She goes with tidbits of conversation here and there, when she can, but the moment he starts talking about gambling and odds, she knows he's won this round.

So when the toe of his shoe brushes against her ankle just as he elicits a laugh from the target, and then he fucking winks at her, his gloating is a little too much.

"Hey Jesse," she cuts him off mid-sentence, something about king of hearts. "I need to talk to you."

"Now? I think we're about to fly any min—"

"Now." She punctuates this with a kick of her heel to his shin.

"Oh—kay..."

They walk quietly, leaving a somewhat bemused target with nothing but the words of Mickey Rapkin to accompany him. She leads Jesse straight for the comfort rooms, where she pulls him in and locks the door in one swift movement, almost as fast as the words are out of her mouth. Her distaste for small, enclosed spaces is temporarily set aside for her distaste of him.

"The fuck are you doing?!"

"Whoa, calm down—"

"What are you doing here?!"

"What are you talking about, same thing you are." His voice is affronted in a tapering squeak.

"That is not—" she points an accusing finger at him, then cuts herself short, because hell, he is here for the exact same purpose as her: to ensure that the other organization keeps their end up of the deal, and not make a move before the Target is in Britain. "—good enough," she finishes lamely. This earns her an amused quirk of the brow from him.

"Really, Bec? That all you got for me?"

"Oh, shut up."

"No, I should ask you the same question. What _the hell_ are you wearing?" His expression is disconcerted enough, you'd think she was wearing a fur bikini... To be fair, she _is_ wearing a Chanel halter-cut that shows some skin on both sides of her body, and her legs are waxed and she is using Marc Jacobs perfume and her boobs look fantastic, if she says so herself.

"You got a problem with the way I dress?" For the fastest moment, his eyes flick lower than where they were looking at her face, and then he catches himself catching her catching... him. He makes this odd smirk, this visual sarcasm meant to showcase his growing agitation.

"I have a problem with the fact that we made a deal, Bec. No moves until we get to Britain."

"Don't insult me; I haven't made a move." The tone is jarred by only a slight annoyance, which is very generous of her.

"Oh, what, so you expect to just... waltz right in there looking like..." his voice falters when his eyes take her in again, and his face looks like an epic struggle for a proper expression, not quite sure whether to settle for disgusted, annoyed, or kind of slightly admiring. "... like _that_, and that's not making a move? _Seriously_?"

He seems to be genuinely upset right now, and then it hits her...

"Oh my god, are you... _jealous?_"

His face turns sour in one very flat nanosecond. "_What?!_"

"Is this what this is? You don't want me flirting with the target!"

"Oh, so you _are_ flirting with the target!"

His deflection tells her she's hit the bullseye. But she rolls her eyes anyway, because she _was_, and she's busted. "Answer the question, Swanson."

"Stay on topic, Bec. Don't counter-accuse me, that's not gonna work."

"So you are, or aren't you? Not even, like, slightly? After giving me all that beer?" The smirk and her taunting are payback for his ruining her play, and she can tell, it has its desired effect. "Don't like the idea that I might take him out for coffee before you—"

"Oh, right, yeah, okay that's _could you please stop_," he demands from annoyance, voice rising in pitch rather than in volume, when she crosses her arms right beneath her perfect cleavage, giving him a rather comprehensive view. And while he secretly struggles to get it together (she can _so_ tell), the muscles of his forearm taut where he is leaning an arm on the sink for a little support, Beca doesn't even pretend not to enjoy this because _oh my god, he is totally jealous._

(For two operatives trained to keep emotional involvement under lockdown until the end of the mission, they are both shit at minimizing the silent, subtextual flirting that is practically fermenting the air.)

"Right, okay, fine. So, ground rules." His sudden change of topic cuts the tension in half. "A 'move' is defined as anything that anyone does that would affect the outcome of this mission. Fair for you, or is that too hard?"

Is it too _hard_, he asks... there is a pause where there shouldn't be as she tries to bit a retort off her lower lip, rolling it painfully slow as though that would erase the very obvious smirk that is making this moment uncomfortable for him. Tempting though it may be, _get your head out of the gutter, Mitchell. Now's not the time for a dirty joke_...

Damn, she's enjoying this way too much.

"Fine," comes out garbled in a half-attempt to keep her amusement in check.

"Fine," he replies, too stoic. He steps closer to her, determined to regain control of the situation.

"Fine." She reacts to his non-verbal challenge just the same.

When neither make a move to unlock the door, she has to move closer, until her body is pressed right up to his, and his eyes are still daring her to be the first one to back off, trademark smugness returning firmly on his expression. She reaches behind him and unlocks the door without breaking eye contact, and she can just feel his need to swallow the lump of tension from the proximity of the air space they are both breathing in.

She steps out to one slightly surprised stewardess, whose eyes take in the sight of the two of them, leaving the same stall.

"He's gay," Beca quickly amends.

(Yeah, right. As if _that_ would rectify the way her heart is slightly off its regular beating pace.)

...

_"Trebles, listen up. What we have here is priority zero.. The Bellas won't be doing any of their usual bullshit, so it will be slightly complicated... but come on, gents. Nothing those women can throw at us, that we won't be able to handle. So, without further ado, take it home, Swanson. What's the gameplan?"_

_"Alright. First of all, we cannot break the rules. That is official, and I don't wanna lose this because of a technicality... of course, that doesn't mean we can't win this because of a technicality, either. Benji, you're with me. The rest of you... well, you know what to do."_

...

Once the seatbelt sign lights up, Jesse and Beca strap themselves in, comfortable. Given the new clarification from their bathroom meeting, Beca had kept mostly to herself for the duration of the two-hour flight. Now that they are about to land, though, it's game time.

"Hey, so um..." Restricted by her seatbelt, Beca uses her incapacitation as an excuse to angle her neck as she tries to whisper something to Daniel, who is all too eager to get a chance to peek down her neckline. "You wanna get coffee, or something?"

"I'm sorry, what was that?" comes out as a growl, with eyes trained on _not_ her face.

"Coffee... _or something._"

She brushes the words across the shell of his ear before she pulls back. His pupils are blown away from the promise of "or something", just as she had intended. (She ignores looking at Jesse altogether.)

"Absolutely."

That is all she needs to hear. She chances a look at Jesse and she's a little bitch for liking how his jaw clenches from her display. But what the hell, this is what he gets for embarrassing her by being transnationally _weird_ in the last weeks. She's earned this one.

So she gives him a playful wink, and she gets a smirk in return.

...

_"The Trebles would likely have a lot of people on the ground. You can expect that they will have counter measures for us. So we'll just have to expect them at every turn."_

...

It was a piece of cake, really.

His leather carry-on is with him under his chair, of course. But so was hers. All it took was a little distraction from the blond American woman, who was having a bad day, and voila. Target is off the plane with a promise of "coffee or something", and her part of the operation is one half complete.

However, the fact that Jesse is busy looking at a brochure and not caring about the target walking out is hellishly annoying.

"You going after him?" she asks, as passengers all around them are preparing to leave the plane.

"Are you?" he asks her back.

"That's not my part of the operation."

"Then there you go."

Her eyes squint naturally as she tries to think about where he's been since the plane landed, but she can't think of anywhere. He was just... there.

Oh well. His loss.

When the passengers have trickled down to almost nothing, Beca stands up, pulling the target's small leather bag from under her chair. Jesse's eyes bug out.

"What the fuck—"

"Yeah," Beca scrunches her face, if only to annoy him as she looks down at her prize, "I have it. Got the other one from e-bay."

"You already made a switch?! I did not see that."

"That's the point," she says, standing up and making her way towards him. He can't grab the bag from her now and expect to make a run for it. So she casually uses it just like she would any other purse; slings it over her shoulder like the proverbial carrot that he's meant to follow, but is never gonna get.

"I am impressed; that was... pretty good, Beca." He looks up at her towering form (though not by much, because she's a tiny little midget), dimples all too obvious and sincere but she keeps a protective arm around her prize just the same, lest this be some kind of distraction.

(Because she _is_ distracted. By how his eyes light up like he actually means those words.)

Caution still taking priority, she manages to utter a "thanks" as he stands up. She reflexively flinches the package away from him when his body angles closer to hers. He finds her over-cautious and amusing.

"Don't get any ideas," she warns.

"I'm not gonna take anything from you right now, Bec. You've earned that," he chuckles, as he puts up both his hands in surrender and for her peace of mind.

"Besides... the game isn't over yet. Rules are you gotta get that to a safe house."

"I will."

He replies with an even more expansive smile, the kind that would probably be considered romantic, had they been in any other situation. His hands are still ridiculously up, and she wants to tell him to _put them down, damnit, you look stupid_, but she also wants to keep an eye on him and okay, he's being his silly self and some of the remaining passengers are starting to notice.

"So you just gonna... let me walk away with this?"

In response, still grinning like a fool, he leans closer to press a small kiss to her cheek, hands still up as a white flag of defeat. His lips linger on her skin when she feels his hands move to her arms, while tiny alarm bells form a choir in her brain and start harmonizing to the tune of a suspense soundtrack. A pucker and an arch appear on her brows because, well, this is very awkward. (And kind of... sweet. But still pretty awkward.)

_Weirdo._

"What are you doing?"

"Since looks like I'm not gonna see you for that coffee," he whispers before pulling away, regaining his composure and charm enough to walk backwards, tuck his hands in his pockets, a boyish smile being the last thing she sees on him before he turns around and leaves.

Just. like. that.

There are people that have pissed her off in her lifetime, that she would sail halfway around the world just to get away from them...

And then there's this asshole.

Checking to see that the package is intact, she takes a peep inside the bag, and there are the envelopes. She looks up at his exiting form before sticking her tongue in her cheek from sheer annoyance, sarcastic grin spreading slowly over her features as she shakes her head. Even when she wins, _even when she goddamn wins_...

God, she hates that bastard.

With a sigh the size of Jesse's ego, Beca makes her way off the plane, content that the play is going according to plan. Even if she does hate a certain Treble... for no apparent reason.

(She _does._ This is _hate_, and not anything else. Not disappointment... of course not.)

...

_"One of the Bellas would most likely grab the documents as soon as the plane lands... Hat, you're on Bella duty number one."_

...

_"We're playing this one close to the chest, ladies. No mistakes. Expect them at every turn. Also, don't forget to make it look a little hard. We don't want them to suspect anything."_

...

And that's how it starts.

* * *

**AN**: Part 1 of 2...

Guys. Guuuys. Gaaaiiiisss...

Where did ya'll go? Is there some secret vacation hideaway I was not invited to? Where are ya'll? :)) In any case, the next chap will be up asap, as soon as it's done with the polishing... As always, please forgive my inaccuracies, and please review! I miss your words! :) I dedicate this chappie to all them hard working Beca/Jesse authors who are working their butts off in school or otherwise. You know who you are. ;) And also, to those who have been consistently reading and reviewing my work... You guys are the light at the end of my weirdly-shaped tunnel. I KNOW YOU. I CAN SEE YOU. YOU ARE ALL IMPORTANT TO ME. *insert mildly-weird but warm hug moment*

This and the next chapter will be light. So that I can set the stage. For, you know, the _not _light parts.

ps. *cough*shoutout to*cough*BittyAB*cough*and her fic*cough*My Fake Husband*cough*please*cough*update*cough*when you can*cough* :) No but srsly that fic is amazeballs guys if you are 18+ (trigger warning: it's M) that plot is perfect go check it out. :)

EDIT: To Bitty—I love you so much for updating with one of the most heart-tearing chapters yet. YOU GUYS GO READ HER FIC, MY FAKE HUSBAND. SERIOUSLY. READ IT AND WEEP FROM THE PERFECTION.


	22. Catch Me if You Can

Attraction is often a funny thing.

Fatal though it may be in the world of operatives, just like everything else, it's still a factor. A strange mistake among operatives is forgetting that it is; this causes a whole lot of confusion, feelings, and last-minute decision-making changes.

Another funny thing about attraction is that, often, it goes both ways...

.:.

* * *

HEATHROW INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT (LONDON): 1045

(ten minutes later...)

Hat did not sign up for this.

He did not—oomph.

Chloe inadvertently flinches from the way a running Hat hits the floor with a thud. Getting clotheslined by security, Chloe leans down to take the leather bag from his groaning form on the floor. The same bag Hat had swiped from Beca not two minutes ago. In her stewardess uniform, she gives Hat a gentle (and yet slightly condescending but well-meaning) pat on the cheek, his expression going wry from the contact, while he's still rolling around from, well, getting fucking _clotheslined_.

"Sorry," she whispers with a grimace at him, while he struggles for air through his probably damaged windpipe. Looping the strap over her shoulder, straightening the bright yellow scarf on her neck, Chloe pats the nice security man who had responded to the "snatcher".

"Thanks, Bill! I should return this."

"Hmmph," comes the laconic reply. Chloe goes on her bubbly way.

(She did not utilize outside help; it had come on its own. She's just awesome that way.)

...

BELLA SAFEHOUSE (LONDON): 1058

Aubrey's hand flies to the bluetooth on her ear to accept an incoming call. She wagers it's from Chloe. The voice on the other end is clear enough.

_"A, this is Copperhead. I have the package."_

"Great job, C. Where are you now?"

_"On a cab to HQ. Fifteen minutes to—um excuse me, you're going the wrong way..."_

Aubrey hears Chloe's protests, and then some confusing noises. And then a car door opening, another male voice, car door closing. She rubs the crease line between her eyebrows, because all those car doors sounds tell the whole story.

"Talk to me, Copperhead."

_"Yeah, I'm... yeah."_

By the sound of it, Chloe is standing outside on the sidewalk, the cab speeding off with the package. Fucking Trebles. Well, no time to waste. She hangs up and immediately calls another number...

_"Mercury here."_

"You're on. Sending you the coordinates right now..."

...

HEATHROW (AT THE BACK OF SOME OBSCURE BUILDING, SOMEWHERE)

"Got it... Hey A, next time, can I go by Black Mamba?" Stacie puts on her bright lime-yellow jacket, boards her motor cycle, phone still pressed between head and shoulder before she wears her helmet.

_"Focus on the operation, Mercury."_

"Just saying. Chloe is named after a snake." There is an exasperated sigh from the other end, and Stacie vaguely wonders when the last time Aubrey got laid. That woman is stretched more taut that her g-string on—

_"I'll let you have first pick next time."_

"Awesome."

She revs off.

...

(Ten minutes later...)

While they're tempted to test the speed limits on British highways when they notice the London Police, Kolio and Unicycle don't want to risk getting a record in yet another European country. Bumper would be pissed, not to mention _pissed_. So Kolio tentatively pulls over and waits for the officer, while Unicycle practices his most charming smile, afro flopping up when he lowers the window. Funny, their driving was pretty okay...

Aw, shit.

Bella alert.

Five minutes later, they succumb to Stacie's unfair abuse of police power, choosing to give her the package in favor of _not_ losing _their_ 'package', given that she has a weapon and they don't really need her to prove that she's not afraid to use it. She leaves Unicycle with a ticket for "indecent exposure" (for _scratching his abs_) and some very obscure "Fast and Furious" references that Kolio thinks are probably more sexual that he cares to consider at the moment... and are policewomen even allowed to have that kind of neckline...

...

TREBLES SAFEHOUSE (LONDON): 1115

The sticky sound from Bumper's loud gum chewing comes to an abrupt halt when he hears what Kolio has to say.

"Damn, we were close," however, are the words that he chooses to reply. He's not too worried, though. If anything, he has his best man on it. He makes a call.

_"This is station five," _says the voice on the other end.

"Station five, the ball is rolling, you are 20 to go time. Swag is _on,_ I repeat, _swag is on_."

...

"Yeah, yeah, I got it," Donald replies. Why Bumper insists on speaking in gibberish code is beyond him.

...

BELLAS SAFEHOUSE APARTMENT (LONDON): 1135

(20 minutes later...)

Stacie, now wearing only the bare essentials of her policewoman outfit, makes her confident way towards the antique elevator that serves as the the most convenient way to the fifth floor, where Aubrey and victory are waiting for her. With success _this_ close already, her guard is down, and she chances to put her focus on her cuticles while pulling out her phone to let Aubrey know of her whereabouts.

_"Do you have it?"_

"Yup, safe and sound," Stacie replies with a pat on the aged leather near her hip. She can see the stairwell where the quaint elevator is, around the corner. "On my way up."

...

One the fifth floor of the apartment, Aubrey might as well sigh a breath of relief. But she doesn't quite yet.

"I don't know if I'm ever going to get to say this again to you, but... Great work, Mercury."

_"Thanks, A! Wait... is that even a compliment..."_

In spite of her very nervous state, Aubrey smiles. Ah, Stacie...

However, she should have known better. With Stacie, success is always a little skewed.

...

She swears, he came out of nowhere.

So when Donald pushes her inside the ancient elevator and locks her inside with one swift movement, Stacie is unable to stifle an almost shriek. She doesn't even notice the leather bag. Which is now with him.

"Asshole!" she yells as she slams her palm against the door, just when it slams shut on her. He closes the vintage outer doors with an insincere "Sorry, babe." Jamming the doors together, he must've tinkered with it so that it would stay closed, the perceptive bastard.

_"Stacie, what's happening? Talk to me!"_ Aubrey's gurgled tone is from the tossed phone, right before Stacie picks it up.

"Fucking Trebles!" she says, partially to the phone, partially to the universe, while he winks at her and she flips him off. By some naturally-occurring Treble gene, he has the gall to mouth and gesture "call me", and he's off. She doesn't have enough time to give her appalled expression the decent shock it deserves (okay, maybe that was kinda hot). She cranes her neck to see him disappear around the corner, through the cast-iron criss-cross of the vintage elevator.

Ugh. She and Donald are _so_ over.

...

Aubrey is a little upset.

"Can you catch him? Can't you get out?!"

_"Don't you think I'm trying?! God, I swear, I'm gonna tear his earrings off!" _Aubrey hears the rattling of metal, where Stacie's manicured fingers are probably tugging at it.

"Can't you do something? Find an opening?"

There is a moment when Stacie is silent, and just maybe, she _does _find an opening...

_"What kind of opening? OkayI'msorrythatwasinappropriate."_

Trust Stacie to have the perfect innuendo for every situation.

Aubrey facepalms with enough force for a Greek tragedy. So alright. They were _this_ close. So she calls on yet another stationed Bella. The line clicks, cutting off the all-too-ironic ringback tone that was Turn the Beat Around.

_"This is Platinum."_

"You're on. One of the Trebles is on his way... are you in position?"

_"Aw, yiss. Mama got the cake."_

Aubrey doesn't know what that means, but since it involves food, it must be a good thing.

...

HEATHROW INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT: 1208

(20 minutes later...)

Sitting by arrivals and people watching is not really his idea of lunch, but Jesse is a flexible guy. He sits up, fingers flying absently to his coffee cup to bring it to his lips while he deduces the life stories of passersby, lugging their bags, armed with smiles in the comforting arms of their friends and family. He grimaces when he doesn't get the coffee he was expecting from the empty cup. Halfway through making a decision between getting a sandwich or getting a sandwich, his phone rings. A look at the caller id makes him smile.

"Y—ello," the greeting comes in his signature chirpy tone, to make up for his decidedly un-chirpy stomach. Donald's voice comes through the other end, his own smile not faded in the least by the technology.

_"I'm literally on the steps to our safe house and you will be owing me five grand in about five minutes. Just calling to gloat."_

Jesse chuckles. But of course, his best friend would call him mid-operation just to tell him that he just lost a sidebet. The Trebles had each put a wager on which one of them would be able to deliver the documents to the safe house, the assumption being _whom_ and not _if_.

And just as Jesse had predicted, he hears a strange cacophony of noises on the other end, just before Donald was about to reply. He called it. The Bellas would be ready and waiting with a response team. He had guessed as much that there would be a Bella stationed at their safehouse, where Donald was stationed at the other.

What he doesn't expect, however, is the changed voice that greets him from the other end.

_"Who is this?"_

"This is Jesse," he humors, completely taken aback, because this is definitely not in the protocol books. And then he remembers the accent... "Hey, you must be Beca's friend, right? Amy? I take it Donald is lying flat on the floor now."

_This is amusing_, he thinks. Talking to a Bella, mid-op...

_"Yea, and you must be Hotshot Treble."_

"Wow, that nickname really stuck, didn't it?" He relaxes back on his chair, kind of pleased with the monicker. In the background, he can hear Donald yelling something that sounds like "traitor"... or was that "baker"... wow, he really is hungry.

_"Yeah... sucks for you, though. Did Beca already tell you how she got these documents?"_ He hears Donald making a sound, something along the lines of a deflating balloon.

"Oh, I was there with her, on the plane."

_"Oh yea, Hotshot?" _Is it just him, or does she really sound like she knows something he doesn't? _"How sure are you about that coffee now?"_

"I'm pretty confident." At least, he _was_. Her tone kind of put him off. "How bad is Donald? Or did you go straight for the gold?" He changes the subject, 'gold' being every man's nether area. Jesse winces for his friend at the thought. He knows the feeling.

_"Please. I went for platinum. Good luck with the coffeeee." _The last 'e's hit vibrato as she sing-songs them right before the line is cut, and Jesse finds himself uncaring about his hunger, now that Beca's very strange friend had reminded him of just how disinterested Beca is on this whole coffee thing. Suddenly, he starts to feel a very, very displaced feeling in his stomach about all his little shenanigans during the last week. Insecurity, he decides, is not a pleasant feeling.

And he doesn't even want to _know_ what Amy meant by "platinum".

...

BELLA SAFEHOUSE (LONDON): 1203

"Please tell me you have it," Aubrey begs Fat Amy over the phone as she leans over Lilly's shoulder to survey the coordinates, blinking little dots all mapped out in the general vicinity of Heathrow on the screen, showing her where her Bellas are stationed, ready and waiting for Aubrey's call, if ever. She takes an interest on one particular blinking dot, over at Terminal 3, still in the airport.

_"I have it, and I'm very please to say that... I don't have it."_

"What do you mean?"

_"I mean... it's not... here... Damnit, he must have removed the envelopes on the way."_

Aubrey sighs, but not out of defeat. "Alright, well... did they buy it?"

...

TREBLES SAFEHOUSE (LONDON): 1208

Donald wobbles painfully into safe territory, left hand clutching the much-desired envelopes and his right hand clutching somewhere near his lower regions, he closes the door a little too forcefully. Bumper sees him and nearly chokes on his gum from laughter. Moments later, Unicycle and Kolio both enter, both of them joining Bumper in revelry at the sight of him.

"Dude..."

"You look like..."

"Can we _not_."

Donald tries to shoot them the most venomous look he can manage, whilst walking like a penguin to the nearest seat. "I swear to god, if Swanson's plan doesn't work..." he adds, right before chucking the envelopes on the table, not even bothering to peer inside...

.:.

* * *

By now, the leather bag that Fat Amy had deemed empty has reasonable grounds to be upset.

After all, it gets the attention of two organizations for a whole of two hours, and then poof. Discarded like a drunken one-night-stand on a Monday morning. But that's the brilliance, isn't it?

No matter how many times people have tried to skirt history, there is no such thing as an original gameplan. Everything has already been unceremoniously recorded in history. The Greeks had it right the first time; the Trojans were pretty silly to have fallen for that wooden horse, given that that's the oldest trick in the book.

While Beca has never been the planner (that's Aubrey's anal tendencies, thanks very much), she did have a hand in how the operation is supposed to go.

And first thing's first: make them go after the Trojan horse.

In short, Beca had not really made a switch at the plane. It was all a ruse.

.:.

* * *

HEATHROW AIRPORT, TERMINAL 3 ARRIVALS, (LONDON): 1228

So now, here, she is, making her cautious way through arrivals with the real leather satchel, having come from one last rendezvous with her lovely plane seat mate, Daniel Rivers. It wasn't hard to find him again, with him being 5'11 and very sexy. Also, the tracker she had slipped into his pocket was a major advantage.

After that, it was merely some sleepy meds in his drink, and he's out. Nothing suspicious with a good looking man taking a light nap in a busy airport, after all. Beca had made off with a satchel and her stolen promise. Too bad, really. He had a nice-looking ass, probably would have been decent in the sack, not that she would've tried...

She's been walking for a good two minutes now. Heathrow is a huge place. She flips open her phone, ignoring the way people just seem to be so gooey in airports...

"I've got the package," is what she says to Aubrey after barely the first ring. She walks past a kissing couple and sends them a mental grimace. Lovesick fools.

_"Oh thank god. It's been nothing but downhill since you got off that plane."_

Even while she was on it, actually. But that's details.

_"Great work, Titanium."_

"For the record, I had to buy a new dress for this operation," she replies, as she very nearly bumps into a running toddler, the little girl all but slamming into the legs of an elderly couple. Beca smiles.

_"Talk to accounting about that."_

"Are you kidding me? Denise wouldn't even let me write off gasoline expenses. I want compensation."

_"Fine, you're off coffee duty."_

"Now, I remember why we're friends."

_"Ha. Don't get too comfortable."_

Beca can't help the chuckle that that gets out of her. Aubrey is such a control freak.

The smiles fades quickly, though, when she sees a woman, not much older than herself, holding a little boy in her arms. Out of sheer nowhere, there's this pang that causes her to slow her walking.

"When was I ever," is her absent answer to Aubrey, while her eyes unsuccessfully try to find somewhere else to linger.

It must be the overwhelming amount of happy people around her, hugging, laughing, crying. She's not a robot, but neither is she a sister, a daughter. Or mother. She's just Beca, trained operative for the Bellatorum, top spy bringing home some much sought-after documents, all in a day's work. She just screwed the entire Triplus over, godssakes.

So why does she feel this sudden, heavy weight in her chest?

_"Beca? You there?"_

"Yeah, um..." If she had a ready quip for Aubrey, she forgets. She passes the back of her thumb across her furrowed brow, her feet stopping altogether. She hears a little squeak where a five-year-old little boy hugs a seven-year-old little girl. Suddenly, having just won a jet seems rather insignificant.

"I'll... see you at the safehouse, A."

_"Hurry back."_

"No need, they won't know it's all fake until much later, and I doubt Bumper has that many goons hidden around here. Besides," she straightens the strap across her shoulder. "I can handle myself."

_"Alright. Just... be sure you come back with those. We need this win, Beca."_

They do, Beca knows this. But she hangs up and wonders about the importance of the win, anyway. Standing stock-still in one of the busiest airports in the world, she takes a deep breath. Clutching her prize, her gaze sweeps her surroundings, looking for meaning to the misplaced feelings of longing she gets whenever her eyes stop on a young couple, or siblings, or anyone experiencing the joy of seeing their loved ones.

It's with a funny little smirk that she wonders: the fuck is she supposed to do with a Triplus jet, anyway?

_Wow, way to go, Mitchell. Of all the days that you choose to lose your training and grow some emotions..._

...

It's a few minutes later that she sees him, her eyes landing on a familiar face, sitting over at the corner, watching her with a curious fascination, legs crossed and a puppy-dog look.

Of course, it would be just like the universe, the jackass that it is, that his warm smile and soft eyes hits right at the moment when she needs them most. She rolls her eyes for him, because it's expected. Nineteen feet away, and she _still _sees how his smile grows wider from her display, if that's even possible. When is he ever _not _wearing that grin, anyway?

(She ignores her loss of control, just lets a smile overtake her when she meets his eyes. He makes her forget the weight in her chest, if only for a moment.)

"So, I hear you guys lost a jet. How does that feel?" She asks as she walks up to him, plopping on the seat across from him. His eyes land where her precious bag sits on her lap, and if he's thinking of taking it from her, she'd like to see him try.

"Well, I'm not really sure..." He feigns a grimace, eyes steadying firmly onto hers. "I'll have to get back to you on that. When we have coffee."

"What?"

At her question, his face brightens up like the damned Empire State on New Year's.

"You heard me."

"If you think you're gonna get this from me—"

"What? No." His brows get that pucker he uses to simultaneously tease her and look cute. Asshole. "Beca, I assure you, I have no intentions whatsoever to wrestle you for that." He leans forward, very serious. "Especially not in a public place."

In reply to his smug body language, she reclines herself, her chest angling a little more open. If he notices, he pretends not to. His eyes are locked onto hers.

"Well, I'm gonna have to pass. I have a lead to get to. Got a multi-million-dollar drive to retrieve, so..." she makes a move to stand up, when his words stop her.

"You sure they're in there?"

_What?_

Her expression changes, and one look at the smirk he has spells trouble for her. She cautiously opens the bag. Of course they're in here. They can't be anywhere else. She sees the envelopes, but just to be sure, she takes them out and opens them.

They contain several pages of blanks.

The loud sound of shoes and rolling luggage wheels reach an irritating level in her ears, her lips tightening into a thin, upwards line. Much like a smile, but with far less cordiality. She closes her eyes to breathe a light obscenity. Ah, fuck. When she opens them, it is to the delight of the Triplus operative sitting across from her, who must have been waiting here in the airport just to see her expression.

Ah. _Fuck._

"How'd you do it?" She sits back down. She really is curious.

"When we established the rules, we said that we can't make a move before the Target is in Britain. So, I made sure that once we reached British airspace, there would be someone to make a switch."

Son of a gun. She doesn't know whether to be impressed that he came up with that, or to be depressed that she hadn't. She settles on half-and-half.

"You had a Treble sit behind him. To switch the envelopes." Her disappointment is conveyed with a humorless smile and shake of the head.

Jesse nods far too eagerly to look like a responsible adult. "So... this," he holds up a manila envelope he pulled out from where he was sitting on them, the weirdo, "goes with me."

Well, now.

She closes her eyes, telling herself what an idiot she is, asking herself what the hell just happened... He's fucking _good_, that's what, but, oddly enough, she can't find it in herself to hate him for it. She'll hate him for a lot of things, sure. Like sending her a message in midtown Tokyo traffic, or hacking Google. But somewhere, six feet deep under her conditioned senses, she kind of saw it coming.

It was a fair game, and she had lost. She can't hate him for that.

"I guess I owe you a date, then," she breathes, not to anyone in particular. Just a passing thought.

At her words, his features slant slightly downwards. And she vaguely registers that he's watching her, again (where the hell did he learn to stare like that, anyway), but it takes her a moment to return the favor.

She cocks her eyebrow as though to ask what's up, only to be met with his hand, reaching over to hand her the envelope.

He's... handing her the envelope.

"What," is her unsure question, not really understanding the gesture. This makes him laugh in response, the corners of his twenty-something eyes crinkling at the edges.

"Here." He waves the envelope at her, and she still doesn't get it. "Take them."

_He's giving you the lead._

When her brain finally buffers, it's to an incredulous expression. "Dude, I'm not taking that from you!"

"You're not taking anything," he says, withdrawing his awkwardly outstretched hand to place the brown paper on the table, sliding it over to her. "I'm giving it to you. You know, there's this concept. It's called _sharing_."

Her eyes drop to the envelope on the table, and then they meet his.

"So, what..." she starts, tapping an index on the brown paper. "You want me to—"

"No." It comes out firm. Very unlike the gentleness in his eyes. "I'm not asking for anything in return, just... let's call it a tie."

"It's not a tie. You won," she accuses, suddenly very uncomfortable.

"Yeah, but... let's face it. If we go after the lead by ourselves, you Bellas won't be able to catch us. And to be honest," he shrugs, and there's that sincerity again that burns a hole through her conscience, "I'm not really looking forward to finding that drive if I won't be seeing you around for the chase."

She stares at the envelope, sitting there, mocking at her inability to form a functional response. Trying to find words is like fly-fishing for rocks.

He probably senses her confusion, so he continues. "Look, Bec, just take them. I know your boss would be upset if you don't bring home the bacon, and I already had these imaged and sent to our HQ. We have the information. Let's just... call the whole deal null and void. It was stupid anyway... I mean, not the coffee. That's not, I mean... what I meant by "stupid'," he quickly amends, his stutter crystal clear from across the small expanse of the table. "I don't... I would love to have coffee with you, any time, place, date or situation. But... not like this."

Which are words that make her feel like shit, to be honest.

"I don't want you to go out because you have to, Bec."

There's a change in demeanor, wherein it seems like he shifts into a different skin altogether. She sees it... he tries to hide it, tries to play it off, but his tells are showing. His smile bears no resemblance to that shiny, sparkly ego that he usually carries in bright neon lights. When he laughs, it's not so much happy as it is embarrassed.

"What kind of friend would I be if I did that?" he adds with good humor.

And there it is, the official admission from him thrown casually in a conversation, as only he would be able to pull off without so much as flinching. She doesn't know how to feel about this, but he's sitting there so very sincere, open. And she's sitting here. Analyzing the warmth she feels when he meets her eyes, the way his stubbled jaw moves with what she assumes is torture, waiting for her response.

Because that's what friends do, of course. Analyze each other to see which one is lying, and which one is a greater liar. And she's just _such _a great friend.

(No, that is not what friends do. He's like an open wound. She's like battery acid. This shouldn't work.)

But it sort of _does, _and they kind of... _are. _She knows this. Hearing it out loud, though, is akin to swallowing cardboard.

And he's a really nice guy. She can admit that without losing control, okay.

(A nice guy, with nice _arms, _not that she's noticed or anything...)

He's her _friend_. That makes absolutely no difference, whatsoever. They're still spies. From rival organizations.

Alright.

When finally she shifts in her seat to relax back, arms crossing across her chest (a good distance beneath her boobs; she's not that cruel), it's to a good sigh from him. She relaxes her brows as if to say _fine, _a resignation in her movements that makes him grin like victory.

"Alright," she settles, taking the envelope in her hands. "So I'll just take this, then?"

"Yeah. You do that." But his smile is no longer tentative. It's filled with a promise of future missions. Of a... blossoming relationship. A friendship.

Ew, gross.

She thinks about opening the envelope in her hand and looking at the next lead right now. Instead, she asks him. "Have you read it?"

He nods. "Spain. In a few weeks."

"Great." She pulls off casual like her favorite cardigan, like they'd just made a business deal rather than him giving her a major lead for no apparent reason other than they were _friends_ (verbalized as it is, whatever that means). But she's in control, she tells herself, and if he wants to give this to her, then that's his problem. She's not going to refuse a free lead.

"So, I'll get going." She stands up, shoves the envelopes in the leather bag, looking like she had just met a _friend_ at the airport. He's sitting there with a goofy grin on his face, like he knew this is what he gets. But he doesn't seem upset. Looks like he really meant it when he said he expects nothing in return. Idiot.

"I'll see when I see you," he says.

She finishes with straightening the strap across her shoulder, the flap of satchel facing her hip. "Yeah. See you."

"Alright."

"Okay."

While admitting that they were friends doesn't have to mean a damn thing, the warmth of his being is freakishly persistent, just like the rest of him (surprise surprise). Even as she prepares to go, when she wants to throw a witty final retort, it's to the brown eyes staring at her, taking her in, like she _had _just come from arrivals, and he's been waiting for her, waiting for this moment to use his eyes in place of words that were never meant to be shared between the two of them. It takes an overdue moment for her to realize that she has been returning his steady gaze.

_Oh my god, this is so queerballs, what is happening to me..._

"Whatever," she says out of nowhere, choosing to toss her eyeballs heavenward as she turns around.

"I didn't say anything!" he chuckles.

She flips him off absently as she turns around just the same. She heads back to HQ. But instead of a Triplus jet, what she has is a smile.

Walking across Heathrow International Airport, one of the busiest in the world, she contemplates that perhaps, just maybe, a smile in place of a jet isn't too bad.

...

If her were being completely honest, watching Beca walk away hurts like a bitch.

Of course, he'd expected as much. But the whole thing was silly in the first place... placing bets to get her to have coffee with him? Idiot move, and he doesn't even need Beca to tell him so. It was poor thinking on his part, and it was when he realizes that coffee was no longer fun if she was doing it out of obligation.

Actually, it would just hurt like a bitch if she _did _do it out of obligation. He'd much rather watch her walk away out of her own choice. Friends don't make friends do stuff they don't want to do.

And he and Beca _are _friends... he thinks. He'd like to believe that saving someone's life on occasion means more than just a random "guy from work" kind of relationship. He dropped the f-bomb (_friendship_) in their conversation, and she seemed okay with it...

"Hey, man." Benji's voice snaps him out of his revery, waking him up from trying to see which tiny, black smudge in the distance could be Beca, walking away. He looks up to see Benji, happy and smiling and with two coffees and a box of donuts.

"What'd I miss?" He asks, offering a cup. Jesse's resulting chuckle is riddled with irony.

"Not much," he says, taking the proferred coffee, this universal warm drink that friends have with other friends. The wisps of steam escapes from the tiny slit of the lid, and he misses her already.

Ah, well. Bumper will kill him for giving up the documents, and Beca couldn't give less of a damn, typical Beca.

But hey. They're friends. He smiles at the thought, taking a sip too soon and burning his tongue by accident. You win some, you lose some.

.:.

* * *

There are many, many factors to consider in an operation. Try as one might, it is impossible to take all of them into account.

It's even more impossible to account for a factor, when it's not even supposed to exist.

So when Jesse boards the jet, _their _jet, to head back to good ol' America, he does not expect the text he receives. He doesn't worry his brain cells, wondering how she got his number or why or what. All those factors are irrelevant. He simply leans back in his seat, the whirr of the engines starting up as Donald prepares them for flight.

He won't get any service once they're up in the air, so he memorizes every letter of every word from her text:

_One time. Coffee. Pick the date._

Neither one of them, in their own private jets, are aware that attraction is a major factor in their relationship. However, they will both find out soon enough.

* * *

**AN**: I dedicate this chappie to Millie and Hannagh and Tiff and all them readers in the UK, who are taking (or have just finished) their finals. I know, not much on the Beca/Jesse in the last chapters, but fear not, we'll get there. ;) Thank you to Tiff, for helping me with the setting and for just being her awesome self. Thank you to all of your for being your aweseom selves and for reviewing. Thank you. :)

Also, I forgot to mention that I dropped quite a few Easter eggs in the last chapter. Some of the unexpected characters in the last two chapters would be showing up in later chappies, so... yay!

Not sure when I can update next, but your reviews help a lot! :D Ya'll get hugs from me...

ps. Congrats on ya'll who couldn't decide to win the bet and who had called it a tie! I had decided long ago that this was what was going to happen, but ya'll know me too well. :))


	23. Too Close

_"Tell the truth, Beca."_

_"I don't know what you're talking about."_

* * *

THE DESERTS OF CAIRO, EGYPT: 1428

(Five days after London...)

"_Hold you position, Titanium, we're doing what we can._"

There is a sound, like the clapping of a thousand thunders, when the building some eighteen feet from where Beca has shielded herself gets its walls blown to bits from the grenades of... one of the two groups she is caught in between, it doesn't really matter, it's ashes and smoke either way. She can barely hear above the roaring of gunfire and pungent smell of burning rubber and plastic and gasoline. Cars catch fire like goddamned pyrotechnics, all around her. She hears indiscernible words, crowding her senses, nudging her focus here and there. She hides, because that is all she can do.

Hold her position? _Really_?

"It's not like I—" a stray bullet grazes through the wisps of her braided hair as she stands up to look. "—not like I have a choice, A! Do you even hear that?" She practically screams, because if Aubrey cannot hear the gunfire, well then, the blond is deaf.

"_Where are you?_"

"In the middle of the fucking desert, A, where do you think?!"

The sun beats down, not so much with warmth as with searing heat, casting sharp outlines, even from her eyelashes. The mid-afternoon takes no prisoners, she is sure, but she feels somewhat underprepared in her tank and jeans as compared to the mini army and their rival insurgents, going all trigger-happy here at the edge of town, where the lines between civilization and sandy wilderness are not drawn in chalk. The buildings are rotting corpses, skeletal, harsh and so dead in the sunlight, deprived of human activity or care. There are people all around her, but she can't see them. They're stationed everywhere, at the corner buildings, between burning vehicles and in alleys, fitted in the nooks and crannies of this proverbial underworld, and god help her if they call her out as a target.

Damned civil unrest.

The mission was simple enough; completely unrelated to the drive, for once. It was a simple retrieval op, emphasis on _was_. Unfortunately, the political situation of the location, which had already been at critical mass, was even worse than they had initially predicted, and she lands in a country on the brink of civil war. The mission becomes null and void...

But the exit strategy is a bitch.

"Tell me you've got something planned out, at least," Beca says, finding a moment of temporary relative quiet as she makes her way in the concrete jungle, long abandoned of civilians since the beginning of this whole political shit storm, which was weeks ago. Her body moves slenderly through short-cast shadows, beside walls of stone and graffiti, concrete and paint and galvanized iron used like tape to patch up infrastructure against the constant beating of sand against stone. She clutches the bulky satellite phone like dear life.

"_We can't bring in air support, and we don't have allies on ground. Can you wait it out?_"

Ah, wait it out. A sentence with her least favorite word. Her breaths come out in pants, both from the heat and from the exhaustion, as she comes up the stairs of a random apartment building, choosing a corner room for easy escape, rummaging through the remains of the quarters.

"I have two bottles of water, and a jar of dates. I can wait it out 36 hours tops but I really don't want to," she confesses as she takes inventory of what supplies she finds. "I'm not supposed to be here, remember? Both groups will shoot me on sight... or worse."

"_We're doing what we can. Hang in there_," she hears Aubrey say, concern in her voice clear.

"I know." Her eyes close as she leans her weight unto the decrepit wall, bleeding dust and stories of bygone lives. The apartment, empty and useless, seems to smile upon her in sadness. _Yeah, we're both alone_, Beca thinks, a bitter smile creeping in return. _Abandoned, and unsure if anything is coming for us. It happens. Shit happens_.

"I'll see you when I see you, A," Beca says by way of goodbye, but her voice betrays a touch of doubt.

"_We'll get you out of there_."

Beca lets a pause break the flow of conversation. "It's fine, Aubrey. It really is... I'm good, and I'm okay. Don't worry about me. This place is insane, you can't get here in time."

She can hear Aubrey absorb her words, letting it sink it with a finality that speaks for itself.

"_Take care of yourself, Beca. We're getting you out of there_."

_Don't say that_. She wants to tell Aubrey not to make promises she can't keep. Today, of all days, when she is at the doorstep of death, she doesn't want to hear of unkept promises.

"...I'm okay, Bree. Don't—"

"_Worry? About you?_" She hears a huff of air against the receiver, of fond exasperation. "_Never_."

Beca's smile is cut short when she hears the dial tone, chased away by all she could have said, but didn't. _Don't worry about me, I've always loved you. I love you all. You are my family. We are good, and I hold nothing against you. Thank you, for everything, and it's not your fault..._

As great an operate as she is, she's not immortal.

She slinks down to the floor, her exhales calmly settling into a familiar rhythm. Outside, she hears sporadic bursts of gunfire, of smoke and sand and ash and silence, all the world going to hell and coming back for fresh air only to go to hell again, because such is her life.

As trainees, they had been conditioned to understand that this life is the life of extremes, of danger and waiting and control and chance. Beca closes her eyes, and tries to remember her training, because right now, as the sound of shots and screams and turmoil fill her ears, whether coming from a distance or from just on the other side of the wall, when she feels the ground shake from the tanks and bombs and when she knows the possibility of smelling burning flesh, the sad truth is that today could be her last.

_But today is not a good day to die_, she thinks.

The exit strategy is what you call a way out. It's the second most important part of the operation, next only to the main goal of the op itself. It's the part of the operation that, when messed up, can and will be the death of agents in the field.

Exits, as what they are called in the business, are often windows of opportunity that close and open on the whim of the gods. Sometimes, the exit comes too early. Sometimes, it comes seconds too late. And sometimes, it never comes. It all depends on luck, really. Operatives do what they can to survive, but at the end of the day, their profession is one that is built on a random game. A _very_ random game.

So random, in fact, that of all things, her exit strategy comes in the form of another operative, from a rival organization.

It's four hours later that she hears the squeaks of combat boots up the stairs. A fully-geared soldier appears at her doorway, and already, she has prepared three options in her mind to defend herself, if it comes to that.

But then he removes his mask and goggles, to show a sparkly set of teeth in a smile she is all too familiar with.

"Hello, miss."

"Oh my god," she breathes, and she's suddenly rushing to him and throwing an arm around him and he hugs her back, as much as he can through his desert wear. "God, I thought I was gonna starve to death. I hate dates."

(Maybe it's the truth of the possibility of death, ever so close, that has her shamelessly happy to see him. Hell, she'd hug Bumper if that obnoxious glob had appeared at her doorway.)

(Maybe not, but whatever.)

"You know me," Jesse adds into her hair, "you may hate dates, but you still owe me one."

She scoffs, but she's glad he feels that way, just the same.

He settles his M16 rifle against the wall, then removes his heavy gear so she can search the pockets for "some goddamned food, I'm starving". Since they can't ask for a lift out of there until tomorrow, they both settle down on a mat on the floor, leaning on the wall, shoulder to shoulder. She attacks his protein bars while he laughs at her, secretly reveling how her mouth becomes dusty with granola, how her guard lowers and how she gives him only a half-hearted grunt and evil eye (fuck it, she's hungry). The sun is gentler, kinder than it had been earlier in the day, as it sinks and brings with it the turmoil of war, now only mild sputters of far away sounds. Of nightmares forgotten. They are bathed in a mellow gold as light slants through the window, while he busies himself with keeping her from choking, because, as he puts it, "I didn't drive all this way to see you die from a protein bar, Bec. Calm down and chew your food".

(To which she replies, in syllables dampened by her stuffed cheeks, "You're not my mom.")

She gulps down half the water bottle in one go, never spilling a drop, while he watches her as though she were a small, furry animal, struggling inside tableware.

"I know I'm cute, Swanson," she says right after a huge gulp, "but what have I told you about staring at me? It's creepy."

"Some would call it romantic," he deadpans. But before she can parry with a reply, he quickly adds, "And who ever said you were cute, anyway? You're not cute." He further adds, with a crinkle in his nose to take home his point. "You're scary."

She laughs, and he looks at her, and what he really wanted to say was _You're beautiful, and terrifying, and god, you scared me—_

He swallows when he hears himself think, and looks away. If she notices this, she doesn't comment on it.

They talk for a while, an easy banter that they both love, him telling her about "Million Dollar Baby", making her promise to see it with him sometime. (She doesn't promise, but she doesn't say no, either.) And her, giving him her trademark comments that range from mild teasing ("You're such a dweeb.") to borderline insulting ("I find it hard to believe that a woman would willingly date you.") to _definitely_ insulting ("What the fuck is a 'Nolan'?"), if he weren't already familiar with her attitude. ("My _soul_ is offended, Beca. My _soul_ hurts when you say stuff like that.") He makes a joke about Imhotep, because they're in Egypt and how can he _not_. (He takes it as a personal affront when she doesn't get the reference, and really, he should know better, but "Seriously, Bec? How can you not know 'The Mummy'?! _Don't you have cable?!_") They debate about dates (the fruit, of course), and he senses some kind of hidden meaning when she rants on and on about how gross dates are, and how she hates dates and really, when she says "no one needs them" and "they're useless", he's pretty sure she's talking about another kind of date, and it isn't the one on the calendar either.

"So, how'd you get into the Bellas?" he suddenly asks, eager to keep the conversation flowing from her, if only to continuously hear her voice. "When I was digging, I couldn't find anything on you. No files, no pictures, soundbites, old yearbook photos, nothing. It's like you didn't even exist."

This question causes a visible change in her, and he regrets it immediately.

"I mean," he adds, "if you don't mind my asking."

"No, it's... it's fine..." but her eyes look down, barely able to hide the hesitation in her voice when she focuses on her small hands clutching the crinkled wrapper of the protein bar, the white of her nails nearly black from the past hours. "Um, I graduated from Barden, me and Chlo and Aubrey and Amy. Chlo and Amy joined the Bellas right after grad, but I... joined the CIA."

Jesse's eyes pop out. "You were a spook?" He whisper-asks. "Don't government agencies have, like, a height standard for new recrui—Ow!—okay, okay, my bad. Please continue."

"Anyway, I was, um... I had my first assignment. Russia. Deep cover, so it was supposed to be long term. Long story short, I got burned, I did my time, some friends picked me up, then I joined the Bellas just two years ago."

Jesse's eyes adjust to the orange lighting now coloring their conversation in warmth. She keeps her eyes trained forward, not looking at him or any other direction, almost completely stoic as she delivers what he supposes is the short version of a very complicated history. He waits for a level of silence to blanket them, before carefully venturing on.

"...Wow. That was a really long story, Bec. Sorry, I got lost in all of the many minor details, could you repeat that? And get to the point this time."

When she laughs, but doesn't reply to his implied request, it's a half-win for him.

"'Bout you, Swanson? What's your deal? Too much sugar growing up? I bet you were one of those ADHD kids, am I wrong?"

He scoffs. "You have _no_ idea."

The conversation segues from random topic to random topic, a beautiful simplicity unspoken between the of them. As operatives, they are trained to pick up deeper meanings, hidden signs and motives. Even though they can't shut the training off and he learns more and more from her as little as she gives away, even as she knows that she's telling him tidbits of her personal life, a rule she hasn't broken in a long time... she could be dead right now, but she isn't.

She'll wait till she gets home, before she berates herself and overthink the situation.

"Hey can I ask a question?" The tentativeness with which she speaks startles him.

"No, you may _not_ ask a question, Beca. Who gave you such a silly idea?"

"Ha... It's um, after London, you... didn't get back to me. Why?"

Of all things to inquire about, he did not expect this.

"C'mon, Bec." It takes all of his goddamned training to will away the possibility of a redness coming up to his ears.

"I'm not following."

He then turns towards her, heart as open as the square through which they face the fading sun. He reaches for his back pocket to fish for his phone, sighing because shit, he's really gonna do this.

"Rule number one," he swipes a few, and shows his screen to her. She looks at his drafted messages from the last five days, all addressed to her, all phrased differently, but with the same idea: Would you like to go out on [next Monday/this weekend/tomorrow/tonight/right now/yesterday?].

"Can't have you thinking I was too desperate." But his smile is lopsided and he can't look at her straight and it may be the lighting, but she could _swear _he's blushing right now.

(_Too late for that now, dork_, she wants to reply, but she bites her lip anyway, lest she comes across as too amused. "Wow, okay. That is... wow. Really outdid yourself this time, Swanson," is what she tells him instead.)

Dusk turns to evening, as the two of them prattle on. She tells him all the languages she knows ("Vader in German means father." "You're shitting me... You know German? So that's why you don't like fun things!"), and he tells her pointless movie trivia ("... to help with his morning dumps." "Who's Judd Nelson?") Sleep doesn't come easily for people who are trained to withstand it, but Beca has had a rough day, he can tell. She yawns into the back of her hand in the middle of his sentence, even though he can tell that she's trying keep up with his wakefulness.

"Okay, Bec. As much I'd like to tell you about my legendary uncle and how he stole 150 million dollars—"

"Oh, you're from a family of crooks! How unsurprising," she mocks, her tone dampened with wear and drowsiness. He ignores her comment with a smile.

"—I can tell you're already dozing off," he near whispers, because she leans her head against his shoulder unceremoniously, suddenly, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. He is left with a view of her scalp and the downward fluttering of her lashes and the curve of her French braid along the line of her neck as she settles closer to him, bathed in moonlight.

"Oh no," she says, voice clearly on the verge of unconsciousness, but sarcastic nonetheless, "your family is just _so, _super interesting, please keep talking," she drawls, and he finds himself smiling into the little wisps of her untidy hair near his mouth. His shoulder and his arm, pinned by her weight against him, start to feel needles, but god, does he want this moment to stretch on and on.

"At least you have a family," she breaths, as a final goodbye before she dozes off on his side.

When finally he shifts, gently, her body follows him. When he lays down, she settles next to him, her eyes closed and her movements lidded with sleep. She settles on the crook of his elbow as a pillow, and then promptly pushes his ribs away, murmuring something along the lines of "move, it's hot". He laughs silently to himself.

His arm outstretched, losing blood from where her head is resting against it, with her sleeping beside him. At first, he pins his eyes to the ceiling, willing them to rest. But when he turns, when at last he sees her, all thoughts of peaceful slumber run out the window.

There is a silver-dipped image of her, all dark lines and scarce color, soft movements as her breathing hums. A small gash is near her temple, lips caked with flakes of dead skin, her dried sweat. Her hair, wisps of it, forever lawless in the only way she can be. Eyelashes made longer by the moon, against cheekbones reddened by the sun, and by god, he could swear, in every circumstance, there is something inherent in the way the aspects of her come together to form her, an inherent grace, a soft spirit, a strong one...

_And you wonder why I stare at you._

He'd like to keep her like this, even if it means not getting a wink of sleep or losing feeling in his arm in the morning. For once, he'd like to keep her breathing steady and unconcerned, resting and not struggling behind her walls. He'd like nothing more than to tuck her into his side and whisper goodnight into her hair. He'd like to keep her alive. He wants to keep her safe.

(He wants to keep her. Period.)

But there is no keeping a wildfire like Beca. So he whispers goodnight fifteen inches away, and closes his eyes.

* * *

_"Come on, man. Just admit it. You have feelings for the killer-Bella."_

_"...'_Feelings_'? Really? What are we, twelve?"_

_"Ah, neither confirming or denying, I see."_

_"We're friends. That's it."_

_"Sure you are. Because you would totally forget our own operation, brave the deserts of Egypt, at a time of great political turmoil, risking the Interpol and other agencies—for an operative from a rival organization, no less—because you're 'friends'."_

_"They asked nicely, and she didn't have an exit... I'd do the same for you."_

_"Uh, no you won't."_

_"Aw, c'mon, Don. I love you, man. Give your bro a hug..."_

_"Alright, alright, I get it! Get away from me!"_

* * *

With the help of the military giving them a lift, Jesse and Beca reach the more populous area of town, the next day. She jumps out of the jeep, her lithe form springing out the vehicle in one bound, as he follows. His cover had been maintained, the troops don't suspect a thing, and this is the marketplace, where they part ways.

"So, this is it," he says as the jeep speeds off.

"I know you're very emotional. Don't cry now." She walks on ahead, barely sparing a curve of the lips for him.

"Aw, you know me" he says, ducking beneath layers of hanging faux Abercrombie shirts, "I cry only for you."

She turns around for a brief moment to shoot a disgusted smirk, which he catches in grace.

They see the center of the marketplace, and he can just make out where he sees two other Bellas, Chloe and Stacie, if he remembers correctly, waiting for her. But before she goes out to meet them, she halts and turns to face him, as though forgetting to tell him something.

"Hey, um," she says, and he's suddenly mindful of how incredibly close their bodies are, beneath the canopy of an assortment of rugs and scarves, in varying colors and opacity. Her face is red and yellow and all shades of beautiful. "Thanks for the lift."

He smiles. This is the most of a 'thank you for saving my life' speech he's ever gonna get from her, but he can't help but grin like a fool anyway.

"Don't mention it," but she's already walking ahead.

"Wasn't planning to," she adds as an afterthought, turning briefly to smile at him in genuine affection. The kindness on her slightly sunburnt features, the subtle skip in her step, her messy, braided hair, and he's suddenly falling.

* * *

_"Honestly, though. What's going on between you?"_

_"I still don't know what you're talking about."_

_"You want explicit? Okay, I can do explicit. You double cross him, which screws up anyway, but next mission, you're switching partners to be with him—"_

_"That is not—"_

_"—and then he chokes you out, and you go looking for him, and save him from the mob."_

_"Stace, can we just—"_

_"—AND THEN, you text him for coffee?"_

_"You're one to talk. How's your Treble friend?"_

_"You're deflecting. I'm getting warmer aren't I?"_

* * *

Beca sees Stacie and Chloe a little ways down the spice stalls, and she grins. As soon as she reaches them, she hugs them each, recognizing the waft of spices from their hair, from hanging around the stall for too long, waiting for her.

"Let's get you home," Chloe tells her, a warm arm around her shoulders, as they start walking, away from the smells of cinnamon and curry and the colors of saris and sounds of vendors and shoppers.

"Good idea." Beca couldn't be more happy and agreeable.

But out of the corner of Chloe's eyes, her mind makes a brief connection, a spark too small to recognize it as a realization or a warning. It's a face, a movement, she cannot place in memory. Her instincts cause her to look around.

"Were you being followed, Beca?"

Her petite friend looks up at her, brows crinkled for the sun. "What? No, I don't... think so, this was covert, and nobody knew we were running this op, right? Why? You see someone?"

Chloe looks behind her, but the spark of connection is gone, just as easily as it had come. "No reason," she replies lamely. "You know how Aubrey gets with protocol."

"Ugh, can we not talk about protocol right now, I'm getting stressed. Spain is in a few weeks, and you know how it is with anything about that drive. Bree goes bezerk." Stacie comments as they board a car to head to the airport.

Chloe chalks it up to the heat and mirage, perhaps. She doesn't recognize the face that she had once, fleetingly observed, one evening as she was looking for Beca in a hotel in Vegas...

* * *

_"Alright, alright, chill out, man. I just wanna ask one last hypothetical question... What would you do if you're put in a compromising situation?"_

_"What do you mean?"_

_"If, for some reason, someone uses her against you, and you were forced to choose: her or something mission-related. What would happen?"_

_"... I honestly haven't thought about that. I dunno. I guess I'd choose her, just like I'd choose any of you guys over anything."_

_"Right... But if it's us or her? What happens then, Jess?"_

* * *

Just as he had done before, he watches her go, watches her turn into a speck in his visual range, a disappearing focus amidst the bustle of the marketplace. He watches her, but with a decidedly unfamiliar nudging in his chest. When she is gone from his sight, there is a tide that overtakes him, quiet and powerful.

He had hopped on the first ride he could, pulling what strings he can and conning up a storm, upon hearing of the danger she was in. He hadn't been just worried. He had been _scared_. Fucking _terrified_. And now, losing sight of her again, and again and again, he is reminded that no matter how many billboards he signs, how many times he sends her beer or flowers or chocolates, no matter how many times he saves her life, _no matter what he does_, at the end of the day, she walks away. They part. He doesn't see her until next time, or perhaps, he never will.

It washes over him, cold and unyielding. He can't explain it...

Beca. Headstrong, clever, yet sometimes incredibly stupid Beca. Bellatorum operative, whose life will always and forever be in peril, just like his own. And he wonders how it has ever come to this, at what point, and when, he doesn't even know. Since when did thoughts of a woman turn his blood into a river of ice, his thoughts paralyzed in all the fears he never knew he had?

_...Since losing her meant more than I thought it ever would._

_Goddamnit_. His hand flies up to run through his hair, passing across his face in antagonized ferocity.

And to think, he doesn't even know her last name.

Standing still, a statue, in the middle of Cairo, trapped in a corner between what is, and what should be, with no exit. He's missed her before, but now is the first time he's missing her as though she were already gone.

It is unpleasant.

Out of nowhere, he's walking away, fast. Harsh footsteps and even harsher expression as he does what he can, what little he can, to contain thoughts of anger and helplessness gnawing at him because of her. He sweeps across the stalls, giving focus to the flurry of emotions all at once apparent to him, because of her.

_Always because of her. Always. Why is that?_

He is so lost in thought, however, that he didn't even care to watch his surroundings. A shadow slips easily behind him, letting him walk away after having tailed him all throughout Egypt.

* * *

_"What is your point, Stacie? I owed him, and I just don't like owing people, okay? You don't know half of it, and yeah, sure we're friends, whatever, but that changes nothing."_

* * *

A man, eyes shaded in the Egyptian sun with a pair of Ray Bans, leans against a stall, watching as his target walks away rather fast. When he pulls out his phone, it's lazy. He might as well be calling his mom.

* * *

_"Beca... I think it already has."_

* * *

It rings once, and is picked up immediately. The man on the other end, however, takes a beat before responding.

"_If you have the audacity to call me at this hour, Maskovitch, it better be good._"

The man finds himself a smirk, to welcome the cigarette that props comfortable in his lips. He lights it up, his following words obscured by the stick, "Oh, it's good, alright. I might have found a way to crack Swanson."

* * *

**AN:**

YOU GUYS I'M BACK OMG.

:) First of all, **_thank you for all the love and support you have shown this story_**, without which I would find it increasingly difficult to continue. But with everything, you guys just make writing this fun. Thank, you, so so much, for the reviews and the messages. I love you all, and because of that, I am happy to announce that my hiatus is over! Meaning I will be focusing on this story more extensively in the next few weeks, and YAY FOR UPDATES! I hope. You know me, I make crappy promises. :D

Bit of background for this chapter: I had a completely different chappie for 23, but I just wasn't satisfied with the direction that the story was taking, so I had to scrap it and went in completely blind for this one. Also, I'm impatient, so it is unbetad. which is why it's not as good as if it had been. :)

And for those who have reviewed recently, for an update, I LOVE YOU. :*

IMPORTANT: YOU GUYS I FIXED MY TUMBLR FOR YA'LL SEE SEE. "peanutbrittles" is my tumblr, and I would love to be friends with YOU ALL. :D

as a disclaimer, pls know that the setting of this chapter has nothing to do with current events, bec I suck at following current events, and I mean no disrespect to any nationality. :)

Emoticon abuse aside, I hope this AN has been sufficient. Your reviews are highly appreciated, and I'm sorry if this chapter does not make up for my absense. I will, however, do my best to make it up in the following chapters. Till next time!


	24. Love is Blindness

**Author's Note**: Trigger warning — panic attack.

* * *

Most people are aware that there are two sides to the brain: the rational, and the emotional.

The ventromedial prefrontal cortex is thought to be the emotional core of the human brain. It lies inside your forehead, just further inside, beneath your frontal lobe. This is the center command for emotions such as empathy, guilt. Fear. This area of the brain takes on a larger role in decision-making when a person is faced with moral decisions.

It is unfortunate, then, that one's decision-making process is often a little off, when it involves persons who mean something to us. The terrible human affliction is that, between the rational and the irrational, we are all fools when it comes to those we care about. This is not good for an operation.

There is a reason why the goal of a mission is also known as the "objective".

.:.

* * *

FRIDAY, VILLA DE SALVEJO (SPAIN): 2246

It had been fast. Too, too fast.

"Beca? Beca, what happened?"

She ambles towards him, towards the light of indoors in the darkness of the evening. The bluntness that covers her senses is shameful, completely unforgiveable, even as the cold pierces her skin, and her hair falls in dripping wet clumps around her. Her breath comes out in cold smokes, harried, visible against the mild glow of this part of the villa, the fringes of the festivities. When he reaches her, his arms immediately hold her, himself crouching to look straight into her eyes, asking her again "What happened?" in a voice that is softer than it should be.

_You. You happened..._

But she swats him away and makes for the parking. "We have to go. _Now_." She makes sure that her tone is clipped enough to keep him from asking again. The two of them walk quickly to where the cars are parked, with Beca ambling against Jesse's side, a revolver in one hand, her ribs in the other. They get in, he hotwires the Audi, and they speed off.

She sits shotgun while he wordlessly drives them off, off the parking area, around the rotunda to the exit, past the gates and festivities and the nice guard who salutes them. Down by the winding dirt road that would lead them off the countryside and into civilization.

"Beca, talk to me." He says it without taking his eyes off the dark road for even one second. "What happened?" He wants to add _Are you okay? _but the implications wash him with a strange awareness of how he might sound if he did, and what she might think.

No answer.

"Bec, please." He risks a hand to touch her, whichever part of her. She is soaked to the bone, and slightly shivering. He quickly takes off his own jacket whilst simultaneously holding the steering wheel and by some miracle of multitasking, he manages to wrap his jacket around her shoulders, though she doesn't seem to notice. His hand lands on her wrist. Oddly, she doesn't pull away, which is an indication in and of itself. Add to that the vacant look in her eyes, and Jesse is, understandably, an internal mess of panic.

"Pull over." She breaks the silence in half.

He is already driving at 146 kmph, which is past national safety standards. They're trying to make an escape.

"Bec—"

"_Pull over_."

He quickly shifts gears and slows. She opens the door and is out before the car even comes to a complete stop. She moves so fast, and he struggles against his seatbelt to get out of the car after her.

It's dark and ferociously cold outside, but she stumbles out the door just the same, bracing herself against the hood. He rounds the car to get to her, but is greeted by a finger, her index finger, flying out just as fast to stop him, a big, fat "no" in gesture. He stops just short of right next to her, said finger nearly poking his eye out of nowhere, but that's not why he's a little agitated in the moment.

_Come on, Bec_, he wants to say, but he takes note of how she moves, right now, in the spilled light of the car's headlights and nothing more, she is barely her silhouette.

"Beca..."

But she's backing away from him, bracing herself against the hood of the car, hunched. When he tries to get closer, she puts up the same finger again and shoots a glare that is meant to be a warning, and then she's hunched over the hood of the car again, breathing heavily.

Something's very wrong, he can tell. Her skin has paled, her body shaking but not from the cold. He comes closer and takes her face in his hand, even as she grimaces at his approach. Her pulse is pounding a reckoning in her jugular. There is a crease in her brow like none he's ever seen her wear before, and he realizes it's because he's never seen her this afraid.

At then it hits him, what is happening right now, like a sickening punch to his gut...

...

_(Earlier...)_

_She arrives with a date, which is the last detail that should be on his mind, but after his realization in Egypt, it becomes almost the only thing on his mind that evening._

_It is a party, as they are always apt to meet. Such an irony, he thinks, since their lives are anything but a celebration. But they are both there for the same thing: a laptop that had been sold to the host of the house, containing the definite details of who is presumably the buyer of the drive. Daniel Rivers had sold it, and had the details of the sale hidden in an uncanny location, a random laptop he had sold to a random stranger. So, once again, the Triplus and Bellatorum send their best operatives. But if he were being truly honest, for once, he's not here for the chase._

_He's here for her. Almost exclusively for her._

_So when he sees her with a "date", his heart stutters in the only way it can. With a stupid ache that he has no right to feel._

_The night passes by, but something has changed. Perhaps, it's because he counts not in seconds, but in feeble glances, in her laughs and her steps as the salsa crescendos. Nothing has seemed more near, but impossibly far. Like normalcy, he somberly thinks. Certainly, his eyes do not lose their sharpness for detail, all aspects of the mission accounted for. It's first nature for him to maintain that level of alertness without looking it the slightest._

_But by god, the way she moves is a crime._

_(Tequila spills gently down the corner of his mouth when he downs the shot with unnecessary force. She grinds against her date and he orders another.)_

...

He suddenly becomes very rigid himself, as though feeling every thought from her mind, from where his hand cradles her neck and brushes strands off her face. He ducks his head to look squarely into her eyes, but she tries to evade his gaze, even though she doesn't physically pull away. But he can tell. From the way she's breathing, the way she closes her eyes, trying to shut it off, he can tell. Her thoughts are thoughts of death.

He will not have that. There will be no death for her. Not for as long as he's around.

Gently, as though to gauge her temperament in this situation, his arm takes her waist. And then he's pulling her to him, her tattered breathing vibrating against his steady one, the beat of her heart rapid against his chest as he feels her slowly bury her face in his shirt. Her exhales are warm, her clothes wet and cold, and out of everything he's seen her overcome, this is as bad as it gets.

"I'm here, Beca. I'm not leaving. I'm just here..."

He's not sure what to say, not even sure if she hears him. But seeing her like this... a reminder that even the strongest of them have their demons, and those demons can haunt and manifest in ways that blur reality, this is the raw, unedited, untouched version of her that she keeps hidden away. He's suddenly too aware of an ache, blossoming somewhere at the center of his chest, and his grip tightens around her. He can hear her cursing under her breath, can feel the way her palms, now clawing around his collar, are tense and curled and he doesn't see them but he knows they are bone-white. But most of all, he can hear her breathing inconsistently, against the invisible waters of her panic.

_What have they done to you, Beca... What did this to you..._

They stand there for god knows how long.

...

_"(I could take you out,)" Beca watches the woman's lips move to the Spanish words. It is a party and a mission, after all, so she keeps her eyes open even with the daiquiri in her hand._

_It's funny how they always seem to fall on the Treble, all the way across the dance floor. It's even funnier that she's maybe, kind of, intensely watching the exchange between him and this bombshell blond with the multiple plastic surgeries and the boobs faker than her cover alias._

_ She sees the woman lean closer, and she can't tell what she whispers to Jesse, but she wagers it involves less clothing than she would like to know. It is with a vague sense of nastiness that she makes a comment in her mind: _Take him out? You wouldn't know how to take him out even if you had him at point blank and a loaded revolver_._

_(And then she mentally shuts up, because that sounded a little too self-addressed.)_

_With her back to the bar, her elbows propped behind her in order to watch the festivities from a neutral angle, anyone would think that she's merely taking a break by staring out into open space. Good. No one needs to know that her concentration is latched on the hand... latching on to Jesse's bottom. Beca almost skirts her drink up her nose when she sees the woman, all the way across the room, actually slap Jesse's ass._

_She wants to laugh (she wants to spit her drink to an unfortunate passerby in sheer hilarity from the literal ass slapping she just witnessed), were it not for a very strange feeling she gets when Jesse merely smiles the gesture off in good humor, his eyes crinkling in the direction of the unnamed woman._

_If Beca weren't a trained operative, she would gag._

_He sneaks a look at her, all the way across the busy expanse of their distance, and Beca wonders if he knew she was sort of watching. He hasn't acknowledged her in a good two hours, so she should return the favor and look away. She can't. _

_He winks. _

_She follows the standard operating procedure between the two of them._

_She rolls her eyes._

_(Bringing into view, in the distant corner, a face that takes all humor out of the situation)._

...

He doesn't stop, or loosen his hold on her, for as long as she doesn't try to pull away. When he can feel her trying desperately to control sobbing, letting lose a string of expletives for her inability to do so, he presses a kiss to her hairline. When she starts to say sorry, he shushes her and tells her there is nothing to say sorry for, even though he knows her words are not for him. When he first hears the muffled sob, soft and light and breaking, he closes his eyes.

And then he feels her try to pull away. He lets her push him as far as she wants, until she is able to dig the heels of her palms against her red eyes.

"Fuck, shit, I'm sorry. God..."

She turns away from him, and it is now his turn to shiver from the wall of ice suddenly against his upper body, acclimating to the loss of her warmth, especially from the way his own clothes are now similarly damp from holding her. He watches her take shuddering breaths, soaked in tears that she tries to suppress. Even now, at her weakest, he can see the way she fights for control. There is admiration that surges through him, but it's overshadowed by a deep sorrow. She's fighting, always fighting. That's why she keeps her walls; it's a never-ending fight for her.

She is strong, but she shouldn't have to be, all the time.

A humorless laugh escapes from her lips, and he can feel himself sting from the sound.

"Fuck, I'm so sorry. You... weren't meant to see that..."

She completely turns around, her back to him, and he lets her. He keeps silent, because there are too many wrong words he might say at the moment. He is careful.

Because he can tell, this is not her first time.

When she turns back to him, there is a small, forced smile on her face. The white of her skin borders on ash, her lips blue. But he has barely a moment to notice before she's heading back to the car, leaving him standing and stupefied. He finally follows her, going back to the drivers seat and shutting the door. He has every intention of letting it go, pretending it didn't happen. He knows her to be a creature of pride. So he sits down, hand ready on the shift, when he sights her shaking wrist trying to buckle herself in, unsuccessfully.

He can't fucking take it.

"Bec..."

...

_"Jesse..."_

_He breaks his in-character chatter with one of the ladies to turn to her, for the first time that evening. She should know better than to call him by his real name on a mission that they are "supposed" to be (quotation marks relevant) against each other in. And yet, he turns to her nonetheless._

_"I need to talk to you. I need your help."_

_Words that he had never imagined Beca would, or could, say, but she says it to him, and the moment is urgent._

_("Excuse me," the woman to her left says, and she's almost forgotten that she's rudely interrupting the dick hunting of this ugly bitch. But oh wait, Beca doesn't give a flying fuck._

_"Not now," Beca cuts her off._

_"I am sorry..." the woman says in a tone that makes it clear that she is really _not_, with heavily accented English on a dangerously conspicuous volume. __"Are you his girlfriend?"_

_There is a precision to the way Beca's features take on a whole new level of incredulity:_

_ Bitch, I might be_._)_

_Jesse acknowledges the arch of Beca's brow to mean all seriousness. What he does is to wrap an arm around her and lead her away from the other woman, calling Beca "bellísima", as though he had been calling her that since the beginning of time, and making sure to look worried and affectionate, to maintain cover._

_It is a biting hurt to realize that he actually feels that way, and that he doesn't have to pretend._

...

His voice is sudden and intense, it startles her. She looks to his face, but he's looking straight ahead with an expression set in marble. She waits for him, as though daring him to address what just happened, waiting for a reason to drive a cold stake through their friendship, to give her a reason to push him away. She did, after all, just _break down_ right in front of him.

"What?" She replies in turn, managing what strength she can through her tone.

He closes his eyes, but doesn't reply. Instead, he takes her seatbelt, buckles her in, revs the engine, and they are off.

...

_She leads him away from possibly prying eyes, with a gait fast enough to make them a blur and slow enough to make it seem casual still (because she's mastered this profession to within a hairsbreadth of possible perfection). They are walking outside, too steady, that when they round a corner in the gardens, his trained eyes land on a face that shouldn't be there._

_So fast does he grab her waist and pull her flush against him, she doesn't have time to react or protest or even yell a trademark "what the fuck". All he knows is that he wishes he could have come up with something more sensible than pushing her against the nearest shrubbery, and kissing her._

_(Because, and he has to admit, that while he is a romantic in every sense, an impromptu make-out session against spiky rosebushes in the Spanish countryside is not his ideal situation when faced with the Armenian Mob.)_

_But it works, and because two elite spies wouldn't be caught dead making out in the middle of a mission, Maskovitch and his goonies do not think to give the two lovebirds a second look, with their faces completely hidden in the thorns, and only the drizzle of moonlight barely enough to recognize features in the night, even up close. There are disgusted comments thrown, but nothing more. They walk onwards._

_Adrenaline, however, is a tricky situation. Made even more tricky by the woman against him, complying agains his mouth, and he feels the hideous feeling of falling again, his guts possibly dropping all the way to China, himself lagging behind as he regretfully savors the stolen seconds he has left holding her close, kissing her like their lives depended on it, because it did. A kiss is a kiss, whether in earnest, in betrayal, or as a strategy to stay alive._

Pull away_, he tells himself._

_But his senses crowd with the taste of her tongue and the feel of her hand running against his hair and he needs to stop but he doesn't know how to stop._

_Falling._

_When she closes her mouth, though, he knows enough to let reality sink in just as fast. __She has always been unreadable, but the dazed look on her eyes once he pulls away is too much._

_She's panting too. They both are. She clears her throat, looks down, where, to his utter horror, he does not realize that his hand has hiked up her knee to his hip. He drops her leg like a hot potato._

_"Yeah... I was, um, gonna tell you about them," she says._

_"Yeah?" He is an idiot._

_"Yeah," she says, looking away (and if he weren't a spy, he wouldn't think he sees the tiniest hint of a smile, held back by training). "Anyway, I need your help," she continues. "It'd be easier if we worked together. We need to get out of here as soon as possible."_

_"Yeah. Yeah, sure," he utters, incapable of sounding better than a discombobulated teenager. He is such an idiot._

...

They get to town in the cracks of dawn. She's sleeping, her head leaning against the diagonal of the seatbelt, her small hands wrapped around the strap, as though she were afraid it would strangle her. He parks at the second inn they spot, in the corner of the parking space to minimize detection.

He doesn't turn off the engine, not quite yet.

He takes a moment to look at her. Eyes pouffy and brows wrinkled in her sleep, with the pink glow of sunlight sifting in, along with the yellow streetlight still serving it's final minutes, he can see her plainly. Yet, she is anything but plain.

He doesn't want to wake her. He stares. He takes this precious moment to memorize her. Red lips stained with the evening's makeup, her lashes curled and thick with mascara, and still beautiful. The streaks of dried tears she was unable to hold at bay, slightly grey from where they had mingled with the eyeliner. He can die tomorrow, as long as it's her that is the last thing he sees. Considering how close they were to possibly dying last night, he considers the thought somberly. Alas, he turns off the engine, and just as he had predicted, her eyes fly open with a start.

"We're in town," he tells her. "Come on, I'm buying breakfast."

...

_What they do is to work together carefully, with him on the lookout, and her, going to the upstairs masters bedroom to see if the laptop is there. This should be fast, and easy. She is trained for this. Or so she thought. She stops right outside the door, hearing sounds just inside. More than one person. As she is ill-eqiupped to take them out without making a scene, she listens closely:_

_"(What of Swanson?)"_

_"(We'll take him out.)"_

...

The day is spent disposing of traceable items, such as cellphones and the car's GPS, and then trying to find a way to contact their respective organizations in a secure line. Beca rewires her incapacitated cellphone, while Jesse opts for a more traditional approach and goes for a public phonebox. By late afternoon, when all's been said and done, there is nothing left to talk about except the previous night's events.

"What happened, Beca?"

It's such a direct question, and she has no real reason or incentive to lie, and neither does she have a good lie. She hadn't exactly had the time to mentally prepare herself on the ride. But she keeps her eyes on the mess of gun parts on the mattress as she strips the firearm over and over and over...

"I... didn't get it. Maskovitch was there." When she doesn't continue, he huffs a sigh.

"And?"

"I just didn't get it, okay? I lost track..." Her voice thins into tatters of a whisper at the end of the sentence. She had lost track. Of her training, her logic, her emotions. She had lost track, but what is worse, is that this is the _second_ time in her life. Because what had happened, the realization of how close he is to her, how terrifying it was to think of the unthinkable, it brought memories of the _first_ time she had lost track of her training.

The memories of the consequences triggered an emotional responce that she once thought she had under control.

_What's worse than getting burned, Mitchell? Haven't you learned your lesson?_

"Wasn't referring to the information, Beca."

The concern in his voice is too palpable to be anywhere close to where she wants it to be. She glances briefly at him, and it is there again. The inexplicable feeling, clawing at her from the inside as she snaps the magazine more forcefully into the grip.

He continues to be oblivious of her silence on the matter. She wonders why he doesn't just press on, bug her, be the annoying little shit who had the insistence that bordered on harrassment. But he doesn't say anything. He continues to circle bits of text from the Spanish newspaper on the small coffee table, while she sits on the floor, assembling and reassembling the pistol she had brought with her. She absently scratches at the rib of her dress, only to wince because she didn't realize she was bruised there. He catches that, that brief expression, but makes no remark.

The stillness of the room is deafening, drowning in the sound of their thoughts, the same secrets they share and keep from one another, overlapping with words that neither one is aware of. Words that shouldn't exist. In the monochrome light streaming from the window, words such as _history_ and _compromise_ have no business meddling with the focus of the two operatives, right now focused on doing absolutely nothing.

(Words such as _don't shut me out _and _I can't let you in _drift aimlessly in the pale gold of the room, unheard and unspoken.)

Right now, they're waiting for their exit strategy, but Beca has already assembled the Beretta pistol so many times, she knew the parts backwards. It's not really a popular fact that sometimes, an operative's life is full of lies, gunfire, secrets and deception. But 98% of the time, it's just waiting.

...

_One of the many, many lessons that Beca excelled at during Barden was in visual memory class. Making snap decisions based on factors seen within a blink of an eye. Her training comes in handy in moments of extreme duress, when she is forced to confront a dilemma, without time to overthink the factors._

_The key to making the right decision is emotional detachment. Objectivity is everything._

_She closes her eyes, listens closely to the story of the sounds, her heart a distant pounding in her ears. When finally she hears relative quiet, she pushes the door ajar. Yellow lamp-light from inside grows wider, as the door swings open to reveal an open laptop displaying the configuration system screen, counting down in 8 minutes. And a man, with half of his body out the window, about to make a run for it on the rooftop. Maskovitch sees her, is startled, and makes his hasty way out of the window, as though to get away from her._

_But a fear hits Beca, a stab to the chest, as soon as Maskovitch has left. Her heart starts running, and she cannot keep up. There is a decision to be made:_

_They will take Jesse with them. The laptop will delete._

_Pick one._

_But her feet have already made a decision for her, as she finds herself rushing out the window._

...

"Have you ever been to Budapest?" he asks.

From where she has lain her head, rotating the world 90 degrees to the right, she has to roll her eyes upwards to get him within her line of sight.

"What?" she asks, though she heard him perfectly well. Hers is a rhetorical question meant to convey disbelief at such a random comment, but she has learned to expect only the stupidest shit from her idiot, so instead, it comes out sounding just short of agitated.

"Budapest. Ever been?"

She shifts her head up to properly see him with the correct angle. "Why?"

He shrugs. "Just curious." He goes back to his precious classifieds, and not looking at her, adds: "So, you haven't watched The Avengers, huh?"

She squints at him, deciding whether to hit back with an appropriately condescending comment about his peaking chest hair (_gross_), but that would just be following through. "Told you before," she replies, her attention going back to the functional Beretta, only to try to render it dysfunctional once again, "I don't do movies."

"Ah, but you knew I was talking about a movie. We're getting somewhere."

From the corner of her vision, she seems him smile to himself in whatever imagined triumph he feels, and her heart floats up, up, traveling suddenly to the back of her throat, where she can taste bile. She refuses to look at him.

The pieces of the gun lie before her as she takes each one of them again, putting a little too much force with each piece snapping back in place. She doesn't expect it, but she feels a distinct anger at feeling his eyes on her in concern. He has no right, she thinks. No right at all, to do this to her. To change her game, and become a factor.

_This is my life, my job. It's all I have. I owe you nothing._

She feels herself shut down, and she doesn't know which one she hates more: the cause or the effect.

"Ow, fuck!"

...

_She ran after Maskovitch, but her mind is lingering on the aftertaste of her decision. And still, on the rooftop of the villa, she ran after him. Faster and faster, until at the edge of the roof, where they literally fall into a tangle in the bushes below, and Beca is struggling against leaves in her mouth and trying to keep Maskovitch from shooting her with the gun in his hand. It was all too fast before they roll, she's suddenly drowning._

_The water is black where there is no light but the moon's. In the water, there is clarity from being surrounded by silence. In the water, she can hear herself think. But instead of listening to the question of what the hell is she doing, she's swimming and taking his pistol. One blow to the head was all it took._

_There is no light by the unused pool, and it should take at least ten minutes for someone to notice that there is an unconscious body beside it. Beca takes the pistol and makes her way back to the party, towards the light, a pain blossoming in her side, and a few questions that she tries not to think about._

_What are you doing, Mitchell? What have you done?_

...

For whatever reason, he could almost feel her suddenly turn cold. He doesn't know what he said wrong, but there is an aggression in her movements. It comes to no surprise that she lets out one of her favorite expletives, and when he looks to her, she's biting a part of her palm.

He's stands up before thinking.

"Lemme see that," and he's walking towards her, but she's already stood up herself, and on her way to the small bathroom.

"I got it," she tosses over her shoulder, as though being in near proximity to him were the most horrible thing in the world. She washes her hand in the sink, and he pockets his own, watching her. There are so many, too many, unspoken words between them, and for once, it hits him that he doesn't want it to be like this.

"What's going on with you?" He hears his words like coming from someone else's mouth, because _he_ shouldn't sound so accusing.

"What do you mean what's going on with me, I'm fine," she tells him as she comes back out and sits on the floor again, resuming her little distraction. When he sits on the bed beside her mess of gun parts, she doesn't look at him. In fact, she hasn't looked at him since back in the car.

"Beca—"

"_Don't_."

Her whole body is frozen to give weight to than one, loaded statement. _Don't._ As in, _don't say anything, don't talk to me, don't ask me about it, I don't wanna talk about it, I don't trust you enough_. When at last, she looks at him, it's to confirm the statement:

_Just, don't._

This one, simple contraction in the English language shouldn't hurt anyone. But coming from her, like that, is akin to taking a bullet in the chest.

"Fine."

But before he can remove himself from her proximity, there is a knock on the door, taking them both completely by surprise.

"Who is it?" Beca asks, but her eyes are trained on Jesse, and they're already wordlessly working together, their minds in near-perfect tandem. Within seconds, she has arranged the pistol, and he's peaking through the peep hole. He throws a look to Beca that means he doesn't know who these people are.

There is no answer, but another knock, and then the jiggling of keys.

But because the two of them had been trained to know how to avoid violent confrontations, he unbuttons his shirt while she ruffles her hair, and she is under the covers of the bed right when the door opens, revealing a man and a woman. It takes a second for Beca to recognize the American blond from whom she had swiped the first-class ticket in the operation in London.

The man, in the pristine suit and tie, raises an eyebrow at the scene, while the woman is the first to speak, looking at Beca:

"My name is Gail Abernathy McKadd, and this is my partner, John Smith. We are from the International _Criminal_ Police Organization," she tells her, and then gestures towards Jesse, "Is this your husband?"

* * *

**.:.**

**AN**: So it's late (early?) where I'm from, and _this _has been late for quite some time but I had written three drafts of this chapter and I'm still not convinced that this is the right one and I'm sorry for taking too long but this chapter is majorly difficult because of a few factors, not least of which are the themes, but also because of the direction that this story is taking. And on that note, a few things:

1. Panic attacks are a serious issue, and I hope to heaven that I didn't mess up this chapter in that aspect. I tried to do enough research for it, and I hope I didn't affect anyone in a negative way. If you believe that there is something inherently troubling about the way I wrote this, I sincerely apologize and please don't hesitate to message me, and I will do my best to rectify the situation. I think I mentioned before, in an earlier AN and in the summary, that this is a world quite different, and perhaps a little darker. That said, the characters will stick to their archetypes, but will have a heavier set of burdens.

2. I'M SO SORRY FOR THE LATE UPDATE AND THANK YOU AND I LOVE YOU ALL. Wow, you guys keep reviewing! Thank you, my dears. I have the next chapters written, though undergoing the hideous process of refinement. They should be up sooner. :)

3. GUYS GUESS WHAT I MADE A MIX FOR THIS FIC haha It's to keep me motivated and give me a feel of the mood of the story. They're character-themed mixes and also my gift to you guys, the best readers ever:

Jesse (Side A): 8tracks(*place period here*)com(slash)ingeniousmacabre(slash)we-are-invi sible

Beca (Side B): same as above, only replace "we-are-invisible" with "the-lives-we-lead"

So to sum up the lengthy AN: I'm sorry, I'm sorry, and I love you. :) Drop me a line in my Tumblr! Peanutbrittles is where it's at. I welcome all creatures! :D Also, the progress of my chapters are in my profile.

_PS. Next chapter will be an interlude, as we have come to the end of Part II. The interlude will be a glimpse of what will happen, just like in the prologue (which I have yet to tie up to the story). I hope you don't hate me..._


	25. Interlude II

In the last moments of a man, stories like to play up the finality of the situation. How a dying man can still think about poignant words before parting with his last breath. Pheidippides, Mercutio—stories share the common sentiment of the dying, that it is somehow a last moment, a final punctuation at the end of your sentence, a dramatic exit from this world.

It's not.

.:.

* * *

_"Stay with me. Stay wit—do you he—don't cl—look a—"_

_The words fade in and out, bits and pieces scattered, the ideas lost in the wind blowing from the open window of the vehicle. He sputters out liquid, and though he has excellent memory, he doesn't remember gargling this much in his life. It tastes like metal, smells like incoming rain. At this point, he's forgotten that there is a bullet lodged somewhere in his body. He's too busy wrestling with chokes of fluids, saliva, mucous, heavily streaked with crimson. He's too busy trying to stay alive to think that he is dying._

_He feels a hand on the side of his face, and he fights so hard to keep his eyes open, to keep them on the brunette, who is squeezing his slippery, red hand in her other. He fights. He tries..._

.:.

* * *

It's the iron when you taste it, the overdrive, adrenaline, pain, a mixing pot of brain chemicals that keeps you addled for the final fade-out. No Shakespearean words, or final farewells. Just a lot of blood leaking out of the hole through your lung, a lot of mucous and that fuzzy feeling of being alive, slipping through your fingers.


	26. Love Actually

PART III

WEDNESDAY, LOS ANGELES: 0604

(Weeks before Mexico...)

Beca keeps the steady beat of her running feet. The pale gold slants against her eyelashes, against the droplets of sweat on her skin, warming her already warm skin, even as the air cools it against her motion.

_Why do you run?_

She runs harder, her heart sounding like a ground drill in her chest. The route she takes ensures that she is nothing more than a smudge in security cameras, a runner amongst many. Just another statistic. Normal.

Exercise is one her reprieves, one of the many devices she uses to lock herself inside her mind, allowing her to process her thoughts through with the music of the blood pumping her veins. But for this morning, not even the aching of her limbs could distract her from the civil war, the inner turmoil that breaks the barrier of all she had known before.

_You cannot run away from what's been done. Or didn't you know?_

It doesn't matter, she thinks. We have the information. It does _not_ matter...

_But it does._

White starts to crowd her vision. Her breathing is falling behind her heartbeat. She's lightheaded, almost woozy. Her blood isn't delivering enough oxygen to her burning muscles. And yet, she keeps running.

_Because you're stubborn. What's most important, Beca Mitchell? Didn't you make a rule for yourself? Didn't you promise it would never happen again?_

It is _not. _It _isn't._

She runs until her lungs thin and her every step feels like sinking into quicksand and pulling her feet out again. She keeps running, running. Perhaps running away. Perhaps running away from him, and everything he stands for, because she is such a good liar, even to herself. Because he is proof that she is not in control, the way she should be. She's running, and maybe, she can run away, fast enough, from him.

_Too late for that._

...

Beca enters the building with Imagine Dragons blasting through her earphones. She almost bumps Aubrey, just as the blond is about to go out for her own morning jog. Trained reflexes make her twitch at Beca's entering form, not so much from Beca's sudden physical appearance but more because of what it entails.

"Beca? What are you—"

But Beca does not so much as raise a nod in her direction, a brief glance that acknowledges her superior's presence before her expression resumes its occupation looking more dead than an actual corpse.

"Beca, hey," Aubrey takes her arm, and only then does Beca take out an earphone to pay attention. "Aren't you supposed to be on break today?"

"How do you know I'm not?" is Beca's reply, even now sounding bored, almost disrespectful if "disrespectful" were not her default tone when it comes to Aubrey. But Aubrey is also a spy, and she shifts her eyes to Beca's iTouch, strapped on her bare arm.

Normal people make intellectual leaps from point A to point C, skipping point B. Aubrey makes leaps from points A to F. The fact that Beca usually brings her iPod _shuffle_, the small one, on her morning jogs is one of those little details that she does not miss.

"You were listening to a briefing document, weren't you? I'm assuming it's for Mexico."

"What of it?" If she were already sounding pissed before, Beca wrenches her arm free from Aubrey's gentle grip, and Aubrey is sent the signal: _I'm not in the mood for this_. This makes the blond (whose patience has been well and fully developed knowing Beca through the years) tread carefully with her next words.

"Listen, Beca. Spain was—"

"This isn't about Spain," comes the defensive sentence before Beca is able to check herself. She mentally winces at her slip.

"Then what is it about? Because you were excellent in Spain. You made the right call, working with the Triplus, and you got the documents, even with the Mob at the scene. Didn't you? That's what you said during briefing, right?"

The question is implied: _What, exactly, aren't you telling me? _Aubrey cares about her operatives, and this is her way of showing it. Gratefulness wells up in Beca unbidden, followed by the distinct annoyance she usually reserves for mistakes and wrong operations and Stacie. There is a brief inner debate that commences, about whether or not she should tell Aubrey the truth about how she got the information...

.:.

* * *

_The two strangers hand them an envelope._

_"What's this?"_

_"It's the documents that you were unable to retrieve."_

_Jesse looks to Beca, whose expression shows that, like him, she does not know how to react._

_"Look, man, we're just—" Jesse starts, but he is interrupted by the man, around his mid-sixties or late fifties, with coifed, black hair slicked with the all the care of a trained professional._

_"Son, you and your girl don't have to play coy with us."_

_"We know who you are," the blond woman adds, and there is that familiar glint in her eyes, Beca observes. An expression reserved for those who have been trained to be unreadable. And this is not the kind of training that Interpol can afford._

_"You're not Interpol," Beca injects. At Beca's confirmation of his hunch, Jesse draws himself to full height, no longer the tentative cover of a 'husband', but now every bit the imposing operative that he had been trained to be. He looks them both squarely in the eyes, prepared to understand just who these people are, exactly. Beca extricates herself from the sheets of the bed, not hiding the gun in her hand._

_"Well, there," the man called John says, lifting both his hands up as a placating gesture at the sight of the firepower._

_"There's no need for that here, dear," the woman, Gail, further adds, she looks only slightly younger than the man. "We're simply here to give you this." She waves the envelope. "You forgot to take it last night."_

_Beca stifles a cringe, because that one is on her._

_"You still haven't answered our question," Jesse tells them. The display of the instinct to protect is certainly all in her mind, Beca thinks, when Jesse's form subtly shifts so that he is between them and her. This unnerves her for some reason, so she comes up from behind him and takes the envelope. Just like they said, inside are the documents and details that she was unable to retrieve._

_"We want you to catch this drive, Mitchell."_

_At the sound of her last name, Beca snaps her eyes up to the older strangers. With alarming speed, she has pointed her gun at the two of them, with Jesse flinching at the sudden movement, and the two strangers themselves, despite being seemingly wizened by experience, stepping back in the defensive._

_"Whoa there..."_

_Beca holds them with a gaze that could skewer a wild boar._

_"Becs..." _

_She hates that Jesse sounds alarmed for her rather than because of her. From her periphery, he is possessed with a look that tries, but desperately fails, to understand her outburst._

_"We're not here for that, Ms. Mitchell—"_

_"Don't call me that," Beca cuts, her eyes poised to take the two of them in, her stance ready for anything._

_But before anyone else could further their reactions, Beca has taken note of how the two agents conduct themselves on threat: hands up in a placating gesture, yet their feet in a strategic position to be on the offensive. Only one organization in the world does this training come from. After a moment and no less, Beca lowers her gun, places it at the table and resumes her attention to the documents, as though nothing even happened._

_"You're CIA," Beca says, not looking up. She can sense Jesse relax in her periphery, as the other two agents tense up._

_"Yes, yes we are. And you are going to help retrieve this drive—"_

_"And why is that?" Beca doesn't look up, but the tone of Jesse's question is one that demands to be answered._

_The two agents look at each other, and Beca glances up from the papers just in time to catch a question that passes between the two of them. She knows Jesse catches it as well, because there he suddenly is, next to her, a light touch that brushes against Beca's wrist, and it is his way of telling her that there is clarity to be had..._

_But John, the elder gentleman, shakes his head ever so lightly, and then looks to the two younger operatives. Again, the look is familiar, Beca thinks._

_"Let me rephrase," Gail resumes, "We need you to retrieve it. We don't want or need it, but we want to keep it from the wrong hands. That's why we needed to give you those. We want to help you, both of you. We want you to _win_, Beca." Her eyes land on the papers in Beca's hands. No sooner are the two suddenly making their way out the room._

_"How do we know this information is reliable?" Jesse calls, just before John closes the door behind them. John looks over his shoulder, a smile that Beca _definitely_ recognizes._

_"You don't," he tells them, and then to Beca: "but you know who to ask about it."_

.:.

* * *

Aubrey's eyes drop the moment Beca mentions the two names.

"So you know them?"

The question echoes fairly in the conference room, empty save for the two top operatives of the Bellatorum. Aubrey leans back in the ergonomic armchair, a picture of relaxation, except that Aubrey does not relax, in the history of ever.

"Aubrey, do you know them or—"

"Yes, I know them..."

It's quite a picture: Blond curls unkempt as she presses perfect, french-tipped fingernails against her closed eyelids, in a state of utter distress. "I know them," she further adds, her eyes closed but ever receptive of Beca's demeanor, "but that's all you need to know for now."

When she looks back up to Beca, a spark of connection ignites, and Beca knows why those two strangers in Spain looked so familiar.

"Oh my god, Bree..." Beca shakes her head, eyes wide, reeling over the realization.

"Not a word," Aubrey warns even as she stands up to tower over Beca as a show of superiority. Beca doesn't flinch in the least; she's familiar with these psych games, as she plays them all too well. Aubrey is, as of now, rattled to the core, and Beca doesn't blame her.

"Are they... did we get all our information from them—"

"Yes."

The statement is so sure, so _Aubrey_, Beca feels it in her right to feel enraged.

"Aubrey, you know we can't trust the CIA—"

"They're retired—"

"You know my history, Aubrey! You know the CIA! Why the fuck didn't you tell me we had CIA sources?!"

"Oh, do you mean like how you weren't planning to tell me what happened in Spain?! Did you _really_ think that I wouldn't be able to tell when you're lying in the debriefing? Did you expect me to believe that you just happened to 'miss' the information, your objective for the mission? I'm suspending you from all assignments related to the drive, Beca, but not because you failed to get the documents—"

"What?! You can't suspend me, Bree!"

"I just did." Cold eyes meet each other poison for poison, but it's Aubrey who is the first one to soften her expression. "It's not what you think, Beca," she starts, sighing as she continues, while Beca cannot even look at her. "I'm looking out for you, you know this. You know the reason. I can't let you continue to work on this drive anymore. You're too attached. It might compromise us."

At that last sentence, Beca finally turns to look at Aubrey. But her eyes are hard, a steely glare that takes Aubrey quite aback. The next words are equally founded on determination, quiet and sure: "I am _not_."

Aubrey takes a moment, taking in the form of the other woman across from her. "I can't take that risk," she finally says.

Beca shoves herself away from where she is gripping the edge of the conference table. She cannot sit down, cannot face Aubrey for this. She paces all the way to the other side of the room, where she contends to grip the arm of the conference room couch. Just then, Chloe comes in. Beca turns around to see wildfire hair and that characteristic, kind face.

"Bree, it's for you. It's, uh, the senator, line one," Chloe tells Aubrey, but looking back and forth between the two of them.

"We're not done here," Aubrey tells Beca, her voice kind even in the lighted fuse that is the atmosphere. She stands up and stalks past Chloe, on to her own office to take the call.

In the corner, Beca resolves to let her boiling frustrations out through her grip, her arms tense from leaning on the edge of the couch, her fingernails digging into the white leather, leaving crescent marks. It isn't so much that she's suspended; it's that Aubrey is, to some degree, correct in her observations.

.:.

* * *

WEDNESDAY, TRIPLUS HQ (NEW YORK): 1007

"Honey, I'm home!"

The sound of approaching footsteps does not break the concentration of one Benji Applebaum. Even as his friend rounds the corner to his office and perches himself beside the screen of his old-fashioned desktop, Benji's eyes are glassy from being almost maritally attached to the glow of his screen. Donald had once joked that Benji should at least propose to his desktop or something, if he's going to spend that much alone time with it. "Commit, man," he had said. "Don't play with her heart."

(_I've always wanted to be a field agent_, Benji would then think, and Donald would know, somehow, as though he could hear the words. "Get married and settle down. For the rest of us who can't," Donald would muse, which is his way of saying the grass isn't always greener.)

"What's that?" Benji hears Jesse ask. So like a child, his friend is, but Benji is more than used to Jesse's man-child habits. Hardly anything would surprise him short of Jesse creating a Lego model of, well...

"Jesse, if you're going to ask me again about her..." he starts.

"I know, I know, I'm sorry," comes the interruption. They have had this conversation one too many times: _Okay, I'll try to see if I can monitor your precious Bella. No, I cannot try to hack into street surveillance to check up on her when she's going out on groceries (No, Donald will not do that either). Yes, I can find out where the next Bellatorum operations will be..._

"Jess," Benji takes the moment to peel his eyes away from his screen, look at his hopeless best friend with a sympathetic smile. "I know you're worried about her but... isn't this going a bit... I don't know..."

"If you say 'too far', I will disagree," comes the voice to Jesse's ten-o-clock as Donald saunters in with his usual mocha latte and trademark cool. "Jesse, man..." there is an accusing index finger pointed straight at Jesse, who mocks a gasp at the soon-to-be-laid charges.

"I told you yesterday, didn't I tell you yesterday?" Donald does not so much sit on his computer chair as he plops on it, the chair itself unable to accommodate his gangly limbs, unable to contain the slenderness of his being, but somehow, he makes it work. That's Donald: poster child for the gentleman who can make anything work. "Ever heard of 'criminal stalking', Swanson?"

"No, because you made that up." Jesse hops down from the desk to go over to Donald's computer corner.

"Actually, the first laws against stalking were introduced in California," Benji interjects, and Donald makes a gesture to his fellow tech: _Well, there you go._

Jesse rolls his eyes (uncharacteristically, but thinking about Beca all the time seems to have translated into actual, physical habits that he picked up from her), "I'm not stalking her, I just wanna make sure she's—"

"An _operative_, man. A trained, elite operative, just like us. She can handle herself. And before you open your lovesick soul to us—" at this point, Benji, who was never one to ridicule, involuntarily scrunches his face, "—about your, eugh, _feelings_—"

"Very funny. And I do _not_ do that—"

"—let me remind you that you can't try to be stationed everywhere there's a Bella operation going on. First: it's impractical. Next: Bumper is on to you, man. Third: _why?_"

"I'm not... you have it wrong, Don..." Jesse, who could once come up with words enough to con international police, is now at a loss.

There is a word, certainly, that should explain his predicament. There _should _be. An exact word, a phrase, _something_ that could wordify the... whatever this is, whatever has been done to him. Unfortunately, the end result of _this_ means that, as of the moment, all he has are vague notions, pieces of the whole, and he cannot bring justice to _this_...

_What is that space between, where your breath catches? What, exactly, is that brief silence you hear when you feel her steal a heartbeat from you? Where does she take you, where do you go, when you see the smile you had almost forsaken to the imminence of death? How do you feel the sunlight hit her skin? What color is the sound of her laugh? What are the words to the song she sings with every gesture? Why does a goodbye feel like the last breath you will ever take? Why do you hurt when she's not around, and why do you suffer whenever she is?_

_What is this pain that doesn't belong to you?_

"I just... wanna see her again," is what comes out of his struggle. _I just want to see her safe, _is more like it, but he keeps this to himself.

"You have her number. Call her," Donald says.

"I'm not gonna call her!" Jesse spits it out like the most ridiculous suggestion in the world. Just then, a spiky, blond head pops out from around the corner of the glass doors.

"Yo, is the Bella op going to be in play on Friday? Bumper wants to know," Greg asks Benji, who returns to his screens and types in a flurry. He replies to Greg in the affirmative, while Donald busies himself with his computers as Jesse stands there, drowning in his thoughts.

_Love_, he thinks, the curious word coming out of from where it had been creeping up on his bones, and it isn't a surprise as much as it is a natural thought, a logical possibility to this mixture of intoxicating agony. Perhaps, that is the word he is looking for.

_Perhaps I love her._

.:.

* * *

FRIDAY/SATURDAY, (SAN DIEGO—TIJUANA): 0001

Legs that spread like room-temperature butter, they called her.

Eyes that burned like a sassy comeback.

Lips that curved like the damned F1 race circuits, you're turning even before you saw the sign.

"Anastacia" finishes her routine with limbs in angles that defeat the laws of physics, with all the red-blooded males around her screaming for more. But oh, she never gives them more. She got what she wanted.

When she's backstage of the exclusive, unnamed strip club, taking a towel to wipe the sweat off her skin, she finds her phone and flips it open, cradling it between head and shoulder as she puts the rest of her clothes on.

_"You got it?"_

"Yeah, I got it," Stacie says, slipping a tiny keycard out from between the fabric of her latex panties and the skin of her right hip, pocketing it into the trench coat that she shrugs on. She was born a blond, and was a blond up until a week ago. Now, she gets assaulted by a bout of surprise whenever her long hair enters her vision, all black and strange when she takes the messy clump to bunch it over her left shoulder. Tying the lovely ribbon just right where her belly button should be, she flips the collar of her coat upwards, right before her legs, covered in the sleek fishnet ever reminiscent of all things highly inappropriate, start their way towards the other part of the club.

...

_"Just get the shit, Mercury—"_

"It's 'Black Mamba', remember?"

Stacie can almost hear Beca roll her eyes, the thought and image of which make her smirk in victory. The language between her and their second-in-command has always been composed of a game of wits and who-gets-seriously-annoyed-first, which she usually wins. Still, the two brunettes have struck up an odd sisterhood built almost entirely on mean witticisms and sarcastic remarks addressed to the other. Insults are practically protocol.

_"You literally could not have chosen a worse mission alias."_

"And you," Stacie replies, as she uncrouches from the ghastly task of wirework and overriding the security system of the club's basement, "are a grumpy person when you're doing tech... then again, what's new."

_"That's because I'm _not_ tech."_ The bitterness in Beca's voice is palpable, but Stacie chooses to let the comment on the tip of her tongue fall to disuse. When it comes to disagreements born from Aubrey and Beca's polar dispositions, one does not comment. One must protect one's ligaments and limbs.

They are on an in-depth surveillance mission, to put faces to names involving the Mexican cartel. The objective is to get in, get close enough to the target, and get out, bonus points if they could get a few snapshots. The operation itself is a little on the risky side, but then again, all the Bellatorum's operations are on the risky side. Especially the ones involving Beca. And that's only for those that actually go _according to plan_, a rare occurence whenever Beca is involved.

"Got it." The magic words and a spark is all it takes for Stacie's handiwork to cause the little light on the door go green.

_"I hope you break a leg."_

"That sounds scarily literal. And… which depths of hell did you sprout from again?"

_"The inner circle. Where the internet connection is strongest."_

"Remind me to hook you up so you can get laid some time," Stacie retorts, but there's a smile on her. If she is happy to hear Beca's sarcastic self, she does not say so. Being the psych major (doctor, actually, but she never lets this detail slip) among the Bellas, Stacie is a keen observer of moods. It didn't take long for her to recognize Beca's forlorn mood lapses as a slow regress. And while Beca had been suspended by Aubrey, which is a fair call, Stacie had secretly lobbied for Beca to go as tech on this mission with her, just so she could do her part in keeping her friend from the nightmares. Work, after all, requires too much focus to lend to the terrors of the past.

"I'm in. On my way to the greenroom. How's the necklace?"

_"Crap reception as always, but the visual is working fine... as long as your cleave doesn't get in the way. You won't get to hear me, but I can hear you."_

"Remind me not to sing your hated Ke$ha songs—oh wait, _you can't_. Best part of the mission right here," Stacie says to the phone, with loving recollection of Beca's pet peeve.

_"I will end you and set fire to your nail polish collection."_

"Um, whoa? Talk about drastic much?" Stacie turns briefly to one of the glass panelling, fixing up her necklace, which hides a camera. Even now, the mild strains of dance music is reverberating through the padded walls. She feels her concentration rise to levels of a complete professional.

_"Ready?"_

"Born and raised, baby."

_"Alright let's do this."_

* * *

**AN**: Terribly sorry for the delay, as I hate leaving it at cliffhangers. :) I'm so very sorry if I missed something or if it's all just bollocks (as stated at the very beginning of this crazy fic). And just to clear up, the Interlude II happens in the near future; this chapter picks up from where chapter 24 left off. :) Don't worry, we'll get to the deaths soon enough. :)) Please don't forget to leave a review! I use those to gauge where I should bring the story. I promise to give a happy ending though, so don't fret. :D Once again, I love you all. :* HUGS TO EVERYONE!


	27. Traffic

SATURDAY, (SAN DIEGO—TIJUANA): 0032

_"Benji, if he gets too annoying, tell me. I know where he keeps his movie collection."_

"Ouch, Don. You make me feel like a third wheel."

_"That's because you are—"_

"Hey, excuse you, but do you know Spanish? I am vital to this operation, just in case you forgot. You're hurting my feelings here—"

_"You're the translator. Aka, third wheel."_

If Benji wanted to laugh, he's doing a superb job of maintaining a level face.

"Greenroom" is another name for private rooms, where both business and pleasure are discussed between middle-men lords, the generals of the high kings of criminal activity. What Donald is expecting on the other side of the door is a lounge, with perhaps several pool and card tables. Or perhaps a mini-theater. Or a fine arts exhibit. Or a cabaret of sorts. Greenrooms come in all forms, and since they are there to merely tail the Bellas as well as to gather information for the upcoming Mexican operation, there is a garden of possibilities to consider. All they know is that members of several South American cartels will be present, and that this is an opportunity to filch intel from the inside. This is high-risk for them, not having complete information. Which is why Bumper had sent only the best.

_"Going in. Are you getting this?"_

"Reception is clear, Delta. You are a go," Benji tells him through his comms.

The first that appears on Benji's screen is the stage, set up in the middle of the room, hosting a fine slew of painted dancers. There is fire and water and rings, objects thrown in simultaneous fashion, knives and swords and men breathing like dragons and bending like snakes in a dance of bright lights against the canvas of the expensive atmosphere. Professionals trained to skirt the laws of physics, for the enjoyment of other professionals trained to skirt the laws of man. There is laughter and glass clinking, music playing and all around them, lords and ladies dressed only in the finest fabrics, exchanging implicit secrets of all sizes. Benji's trained eyes take in the details on the screen.

...

"It's an auction," Donald whispers as he is handed a remote button with a number by one of the staff. Smiling pleasantly to one of the many bodyguards littering the place, with their hidden pistols and alert eyes, he goes over to a corner of the room. "Probably for antique pieces. There's big money here tonight, I'm guessing collector's, maybe East African artifacts, color blood diamonds, all that."

_"Alright. Do you have a visual on the Bellas?"_

"Negative." Donald takes a glass of champagne, and is surprised and a little wary when he tastes Dom Pérignon. "I'm keeping my eyes open. Alright Bravo, tell me what you see. What are we having for tonight?"

...

"For tonight's menu," Benji starts, squinting against the somewhat dark images skirting across his screen, maneuvering the camera to zoom in and out. "I think I see several SA cartels. Yup, there's Ross, previously worked for the Almonzo cartel. Chances are, he's the Bellas' target. Also, to your nine o'clock," the camera shifts to the left, "there they are. That's Gillaume and Marcel, the french envoy and his business partner, with outstanding ties to the Gendarmerie and French police. Gillaume's been on our hitlist for some time now, but Marcel's a new personality in the game, so you don't have to worry too much about him."

Jesse winces upon the words, even if he's not looking at the screens as he sips coffee beside Benji. There is a reason, after all, why he cannot show himself in that room, and why he is banned from French soil.

"Also," Benji continues, "that's, um, whoa, wait a sec..." His hands fly all over the multiple keyboards and another screen comes up with several profile documents. "I see someone..."

_"...If you could be just a little more specific..."_

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I just... I didn't expect he'd be here. To your one o'clock is Marco Sevigny, parcel-hopper for the Italian mafias, namely the Giovani's and the New Medici's. He's not really supposed to be here because... according to my info, he's still supposed to be in Germany. Other than that, it's not really a big deal."

The live band off to the side ends it's jazzy, exotic number, with the dancers coming off the stage. A voice in Spanish booms, like an invisible force. Only then does jesse turn back to the screens.

"Alright Delta, this is where I come in. Looks like this third wheel is very important now," Jesse says, and the corner of Benji's mouth quirks upward because Donald uses his middle finger to fix his glasses back on his nose. The voice continues in spanish as they watch the stage empty, on the screen. The main event is about to start.

_"What's he saying?" _Donald's question disappears the moment Benji catches Jesse's expression.

"Don," comes the tentative voice from Jesse. "Don, I need you to walk away. Do it now."

...

There are tables set around the stage for intimate parties of four or five. Donald has opted to take one on the far corner, giving him a good view of the perimeter. The lights dim, and even his strategic position isn't enough for him to fully understand what's going on. All around him, silence prevails where idle chatter had once been, and the men in custom-made suits and gold chains, and even the women, along with their myriad bodyguards, seem to fall into a trance-like understanding, suddenly cloaked in shadow.

"I'm blind here, Jess, I need info. What is this? What are they auctioning?"

But the stage, the only source of light in the room, gives him the answer.

...

In the van, both Jesse and Benji watch, albeit unwillingly, when in the dull lights of the stage they see the unmistakeable curves and color of a person, a woman, flanked by men as she is ushered under the spotlight. Her hands cuffed, her head in a black bag, strung around her neck, leaking black hair all the way to the middle of her back. Only the necessary parts of her body are clad in skin-tight fabric, and then the stage starts to spin, and the Spanish voice comes on again.

_"Jesus christ."_

"Delta," Jesse starts again, "Just... trust me on this. Get out of there. That's an order."

_"...Give me a reason for the directive, because I see no cause to abort mission."_

Donald's voice is level, calm. Even in the presence of what is possibly the most blood-curdling, hell-raising sight of their lives. The logical path to follow would be to continue as though the circumstance were not a factor; but Jesse knows what Donald does not, and he's not sure how this will pan out...

"Donald, get out of there." His voice is louder now. Imminent.

_"Tell me what's going on—"_

But alas, they remove the bag over the her, and there she is, the tall limbs now making more sense in light of Jesse's tone. What was the mere etchings of an unnamed woman now becomes the familiar lines and skin and features belonging to someone they had once met and spoken to and worked with, a fellow operative. The vacant expression on her, the runny mascara and disheveled hair becomes a powerful sight, now that they remember her clothed for work, once upon a time, in the Bellas HQ...

"She's... They're..." but Benji does not have the heart to complete his sentence.

The invisible voice starts up once again, deplorable in every language, and Jesse needs to look away, because this practice should not exist, not even in the deepest pits of hell should this ever exist. And while they have been to the ends of the earth and back, while they have seen many, many crimes, this is one atrocity that is difficult to operate with. Especially in the face of familiarity.

"Delta, do you read?" Jesse says. There is a moment before Donald answers.

_"Copy. Sta—I mean, the Bellas are running a play. She's... operating undercover. I'm proceeding as planned." _But a carefulness, a distinct but subtle change has trickled into his tone, and Jesse is worried.

"Negative, Delta. We are in over our heads, and if the Bellas are running a sensitive op, we might mess that up. I'm pulling you out."

_"And I am not your dick,"_ comes the slightly miffed reply. _"So unless you have clear prerogative to abort mission, I'm staying."_

Jesse rubs his face in defeat, tries to understand his field agent, but also his friend, out there. The words left unspoken are these: _this changes everything, and you could be compromised, and we cannot work with that. _But really, who is he to judge the emotional state of a field agent? He's hardly a model of fine detachment.

"You do realize they're auctioning her, right?"

_"I figured. We'll let the Bellas continue their play, and then I'll follow them and... we'll take it from there. Plan as always."_

Right now, the voice from the speakerphones are describing her, body, medical, flexibility and the opening bid. Jesse wants to gag. But Donald has always been the more level one between the two of them.

"Alright... just... wait it out."

_"What are they saying?"_

"Opening bid," Jesse says, from behind a hand pressed on the lids of his eyes. "Um, 8,000 dollars."

...

The recline of Donald's position on the chair counters the way his knuckles are tensely holding the stem of the champagne glass, as he watches the stage, and the people around it. His entire body is wrecked with nervous energy, with indignation and a calm anger that could be very bad in the hands of an untrained individual. But with Donald, the energy is merely funneled into a precision in his observations.

The bids start, and perhaps out of carefully-measured odds, Ross, the Mexican middle-man, is the first to bid. It is countered by Marco Sevigny, the Italian wildcard for the evening.

And then, there it is. What he was watching out for, crossing Stacie's expression. That brief, almost negligible glimmer of uncertainty, of recognizing that somehow, something must _not_ be going according to plan.

...

_"How much are they asking for right now?"_

Jesse answers without thinking, "ten five."

And then Donald's voice comes through, too loud and clear, that the sudden volume makes Jesse and Benji wince.

_"Fifteen thousand dollars!"_

...

BELLATORUM CAR, (SAN DIEGO—TIJUANA): 0046

There's a silence, an almost obligatory emptiness in the way Beca has drawn all her focus on the little laptop screen showing the greenroom, where Stacie is currently being paraded in. The bids start, and just as predicted, their target takes the bid. Beca smirks, because the fucker probably didn't realize that Stacie is a bait...

But something unexpected stops Beca mid-sip, her now cold coffee promptly diregarded. Another man seems to be fighting for Stacie. Another bidder, which they had not anticipated. And then she hears Stacie, a small, sullen whisper that can only be heard by the mic in the necklace.

_"Abort."_

And she is just about to go with the exit strategy, that is, until a final bid rings out, and she hears a strangely familiar voice:

_"Fifteen thousand dollars!"_

Well, shit.

Within fifteen seconds, Beca has made a decision to salvage what they can out of the play, one last desperate move to get whatever info, since Stacie won't be able to complete her part of the mission. So she unbuttons her shirt, lets her hair down, and puts on a smear of lipstick.

...

"Ala una... a las dos... y ¡vendido!"

And then a clapping of an invisible gavel, signifying the sealed deal. As Stacie is ushered off the stage and backstage, the bidding continues, and Donald has no choice but to sit tight, and wait it out. But after the third young girl sold to these scumbags, Donald has had enough, and stands up to go to the comfort rooms, in the corridor.

_"So what's the plan, Delta?"_ he hears Jesse in his comms, just as he splashes cold water onto his face. _"You bought her out of a situation she was probably trained to handle anyway—"_

"This coming from you?" Donald tugs on the paper towels and two come out at a time. He does not care to pick the up the spare. "You're kidding, right? The hell did you expect me to do?!"

_"Let them complete their play, like a normal person!"_

"Oh, that is, that's real precious, Jess, really." He puts on his glasses back on and faces the mirror, speaks directly to the tiny camera in them. "If you're looking for someone emotionally compromised, why don't we trade places and _you _stare at this mirror. Jesus..." He makes sure to shake his head disapprovingly, and then heads out of the comfort room. "You know what? I'm not even going to ask you what you would do if that Bella of yours were on that stage, up for auction. I'm not even gonna _go _the—"

He is cut short when, just outside in the hall, there she is.

...

"Fuck."

The expletive is automatic once Jesse sees the unmistakable shade of dark brown hair, the small legs and pale skin and the voice that has plagued his too many nights. It comes as such a shock, sending a fresh wave of adrenaline coursing through him.

"Oh god, what's she doing?"

Jesse barely hears Benji's rhetorical question. Onscreen, from the camera on Donald's glasses, a seemingly drunken Beca is speaking in clumsy Spanish directed to one of Ross' bodyguards in the hallway, dabbing at the spilled champagne on his shirt. The man seems not to mind Beca's ministrations, what with the way he eyes her...

A hand swiftly tugs on Jesse's sleeve. Only then does he realize that he is about to stand up to get to her.

"You can't go in there, Jesse. If the French see you—"

Yes. Yes, of course, the French. Jesse sits back down, resigned to watch and stress out as the events unfold on the screen. The camera moves slowly as Donald walks the corridor in gentle approach, so as not to seem conspicuous, as Beca plays the fool and does not acknowledge him, ever the professional. Jesse feels the three seconds like the slow turning of a knife wedged in his gut.

"Donald," he says, "I need you to keep eyes on what's happening."

_"I know. You'll chop my legs off if I don't; I know. But I have to find Stace."_

As though on cue from the gods above, a blunt jab of a sound pounds suddenly through the van; the gunshot is promptly followed by a quick rise of shrieks and panic and more shots fired, and then Stacie, on the screen, appearing at the other side of the corridor with a coat half shrugged-on and a gun.

All is not well.

A stampeded of people start exiting from the doors at the other side of the hall, and intoxicated Beca isn't so intoxicated anymore, as she expertly shoves an elbow into the bodyguard's chin at the same time as reaching for his gun. The images on the screen aren't clear anymore after that, because Donald is now moving very fast, and Benji has also started up the van.

It all happened rather like a blink to Jesse.

_"Jesse, you there?"_

"Yeah, yeah I'm here, where are you?"

_"South exit, ten seconds."_

Benji hears the directive and speeds. They reach the south exit, with the sounds of anarchy reigning from just inside the building. Already, there are distant sirens wailing as a response, just as a warehouse-type patchwork of metal opens up to spew a mob of people running away from the firefight. Cars are starting up and scrambling out of the vicinity in every direction, while everyone else, young girls and panicked staff and bodyguards and even the blissfully unaware club people on the other side of the building, do the same. Jesse opens the back door of the van with two seconds to spare, just as he sights Stacie, Donald, and Beca exit the building in fast approach.

In they stumble, breathless on the darkness on the floor. They close the doors and speed off in a flurry of motion, passing by the police cars going the opposite direction. The only sounds in the dark of the van are the harried breaths, the pants coming from the three operatives. But it is dark, and Jesse cannot see which one is her. An exhale escapes from him, one that he did not realize he was holding. The moment of relief dissipates as fast as it had come.

"What the hell was that?!"

But it is with an uncaring glance that the object of his statement acknowledges him, still panting as she sits up. Instead, Beca quickly goes over to her fellow Bella, who is leaning haphazardly against the side of the van. Jesse squints in the dark, and then he sees the way the light bounces sharply off Stacie's clammy skin. His eyes land on the small patch of black on the shoulder of her coat, staining her fingers as she presses against it, in attempt to stave off the dangerous leak.

"Guys..." Benji starts, but the four others do not respond, because Stacie is pale and bleeding.

"Stacie? Stacie, what..." the sentence trails into a breaking whisper when Beca holds Stacie's face, who smiles wanly up at her.

"Bastard shot me."

"Guys," Benji starts, more forcefully this time. "We're being tailed."

* * *

**AN: **(Special thanks to _Taken, _because obv I'm taking a lot from that movie) No you guys don't understand how excited I am for the next chapters you all really don't get it Im so very excited... {excited squeals}

In any case, in honor (memory?) of Stacie, I made a mix for her too! Check it:

_8tracks[don't forget to dot this]com[slash, as usual]ingeniousmacabre[slash again]because-i-can_

Please don't forget to review! I draw inspiration from ya'll. And thank ya'll. Also, if ya'll would like to ask questions, feel free to pm me or to message me in tumblr. :)

This chapters is for marsbarr, who has been very encouraging. :') And for all you guys, new readers or old. While I'm sure it can be a drag sometimes, I'm glad that ya'll stick with me. I love you all. *drowns in fairy tears*

[on a sidenote: oh wow, I've reached a 100k words. But I hope to still have a few more good parts left before wrapping up this story...]


	28. All You Wanted

The ultimate struggle is this: Instinct demands that the laws of the universe be broken.

The defiance of the human spirit will always push and pull against gravity, against water and air and fire and stone. We fly, we float, we burn and we build, because nature is never enough. Nothing is ever enough. We fight against the laws that put order in this world, we strive for something higher, better, more. And while the laws of the universe demand to be obeyed, we demand to play god. The struggle is never-ending, even against the laws that keep us alive.

Man isn't built for nature, for natural selection and survival of the fittest. We can be programmed to be direct, cold. Measured by and reduced to numerical standards of efficiency. We can be trained to be machines.

But we are not. And it is because of this, that we can never outrun the ebb of humanity in our veins, that dangerous compromise, to choose another before choosing ourselves. That want to look out for fellow man, that craving to break the law of self-preservation. It will always mark us:

This, this is what makes us human.

.:.

* * *

"Alright, okay, so um..."

Stacie chokes out a scoff at Beca. "Calm down, girl. I'm not gonna die."

"No. No, you're not." Nevertheless, there is a blunt panic lodged in Beca's chest, weighing her heart down, as her hands scramble to do something useful. A soft cotton shirt is then handed to her, and it is Donald, who has acted quickly enough to find their spare. She can see the pain, the muffled sort of worry behind his thick glasses, and she nods to him before turning back to Stacie. Jesse goes over to Benji, asks where the nearest hospital is.

"No... no hospitals," Stacie says. "Can't risk it."

"What did you do this time?" Beca asks lightly, but it comes across as concerned just the same.

"There was this... _ack_..." Stacie groans as Beca hands her the bunched-up shirt to press against her bleeding wound. "There was... this..." she struggles against rushed exhales to get her words out, "totally ugly fucker. He... saw one of the girls... bastard thought it would be fun to... have some alone time..."

Stacie shifts uncomfortably against the side of the moving vehicle, with Beca helping her to sit up. Donald sits across from her on the floor, his limbs folded in halves, elbows propped on his bent knees as he looks at the girl opposite him. She fixes her eyes on him as well. Without words, the ends of his fingers find their way to the tips of hers. Stacie smiles.

Beca settles beside Stacie and across Jesse; not once does she meet his eyes, which is either a series of striking accidents or a deliberate refusal to acknowledge his presence, for whatever reason. It kind of, maybe, sets him off, just a little bit. But the light catches off Stacie, making her look polished in a sheen of sweat, and Jesse knows that Beca's mind is somewhere completely devoid of him.

He wishes he could take her hand in his, in any case.

Their shapes appear in glances of yellow streetlight, the lines of them shifting between gold and the black of night as Benji continues to shake off their chaser. Finally, the vehicle speeds up in one burst of movement, and Benji pulls an intricate parking maneuver immediately followed by turning off the engine.

A blanket of deep silence swallows them, just like that. Stilled, stopped frozen in time from when they had been struggling just moments ago. Beca closes her eyes, strains her ears to the sounds of outside, the heartbeats of them, the breathing. She can see red against her lids when a vehicle's headlights pass by. Her heart is beating in a frantic, waiting, just waiting...

_Please don't find us._

"It's all clear. We lost the tail."

Beca slumps her head back against the vehicle, letting out a shuddering breath at Benji's words. She would not know how to defend Stacie's incapacitated state, should they be discovered. A brief peace overtakes her; then the darkness becomes a welcome calm, the smallest of reprieves in a world that takes and pulls and does not forgive. When she opens her eyes, she looks at Jesse, and then Donald. It is still dark, but a quiet kind of dark that contains only mild secrets rather than outright lies.

Where she could, perhaps, think of them not as enemies, but as friends and brothers in another universe, another world where she is not attached to danger at the hip.

Longing for that universe, however, will not keep them alive.

"Do you guys have a safehouse we could borrow?" she asks, her whisper sounding like a declaration in the silence.

"We don't."

Neither do the Bellas, but Beca had not expected for luck to run out just when it had turned to them with favor. Stacie shifts beside her, "Well, do you have at least, like... a knife or a pair of tweezers and a lighter? You guys are boy scouts, right?" Stacie asks, her whispers sounding much more subdued. Or maybe it's the sound of pain that dampens it.

"Stacie..."

"This is the Caba region, Bec," Stacie replies, completely serious, for once. "I'm not gonna..." she hisses when she tries to straighten up, "...get away with a bullet in my shoulder. They'll find us..."

"We don't have a safehouse here, but..." Donald looks at Jesse, as though asking for permission to continue. Jesse nods. "Bumper has."

...

(0238)

It is a ten-minute drive from where they were. The small apartment building is in a quiet neighborhood, completely nondescript. Donald helps Stacie up the flights of stairs, the rest of them following in silent footsteps against the pebble wash. They reach the last door on the fourth floor. Jesse runs his hand against the panel, checks the knob, checks the wall around it, before staring at the plastic number "16" and sliding it to reveal the key right behind.

Inside is a fully furnished apartment, small but just enough. There is no electricity, but they find and light several candles. Donald sets Stacie down on the sofa, and then goes off to find some alcohol, while Beca is already looking for a knife. She looks inside the kitchen cabinet, where a box is. Holding up a candle, she opens it. But instead of kitchen supplies, she sees photographs. She closes it up again and resumes her search.

After a few minutes, Beca goes back to Stacie, a small paring knife in hand. She acts quickly, her every movement mirrored by the flickering shadows all around her, steady in their restlessness. Gently, she pulls back the collar of Stacie's coat, to reveal the wound. Sweat trickles down Stacie's chin as Beca is faced with a messy run of blackish red, and a small hole punched in the flesh of her friend's shoulder. Donald is present, giving the girls distance, but still there to offer any help. Benji and Jesse are in the other rooms, presumably already arranging for an exit strategy.

"Looks like it's shallow, you lucky bitch," Beca half-lies. She's not sure how shallow the bullet is, just that she would have to fish it out.

"Just get me through this with my arm intact."

"No promises. Belt," Beca demands, and Donald unbuckles his and hands it to Beca, who folds it and gives it to Stacie. Stacie sees the vodka in Donald's hand first, though.

"That better be for me," Stacie says, eyeing the bottle with a mix of both want and dread. Donald smiles, more to himself, as he opens it. She takes it almost by force and takes a good, long swig. Beca finishes sterilizing the knife over the candle fire before taking the bottle straight from Stacie's lips, where a protest chokes on a gulpful of alcohol. "Hey, I wasn't finished."

Beca mirrors Stacie, taking a good moment to drink her fill before the task at hand. The vodka hisses over the glowing blade when she pours it over.

"You couldn't find some rubbing alcohol anywhere?" Stacie comments, repulsed by the sound, and what's to come.

"God, you are so high maintenance."

Donald's slight amusement falters when he sees Stacie take his folded belt, and bite down on it, her breaths now fast and purposeful. Beca leans closer, keeping her eye on the wound and avoiding the reality of the face it belongs to, one of her Bellas. Like ripping off a bandaid, she thinks, she will do her best to do this fast. Stacie is not known for her pain tolerance; that's Beca's reputation.

But it's funny how an experience felt is completely different from an experience felt by someone close to you.

"Okay. Okay..." Beca breathes, tries to calm herself, though her exhales come out shuddering.

Images of the human anatomy and terminal ballistics flash in her mind, as much as she can recall. The subclavian artery, the brachial plexus, bullet position and everything else that could go wrong. One wrong move, a wrong angle of the blade, and she could have Stacie bleeding to death, or perhaps paralyzed. Not to mention the risk of infection...

A muffled "mmmffhh" comes from her mildly annoyed patient. Speaking with a belt in the mouth tends to blur words to incoherence, but Beca knows she's saying something along the lines of _Get it fucking over with already._

And then, she follows Stacie's eyes to where her hand is shaking, the tremor made even more apparent by the dull glow of candlelight. At once, she knows she isn't the best person for this. The terrifying thought becomes almost unbearable.

But she is all that Stacie has.

_Get yourself together. Don't kill her, don't kill her..._

Just as she leans forward, unsure and still tremulous, a gentle hand stops her, and there's Jesse beside her.

"Let me," he says. She stills with a thousand thoughts at those two words.

(_I cannot let you. I already have, and I am this close to getting you burned with me..._)

But she doesn't pull back. She looks at Stacie, who nods none too subtly. He eases her fingers off the blade, and she wordlessly steps back. She crosses her arms to hide her shaking hands.

They take the bullet out, and Beca endures all of Stacie's cries without blinking. Stacie screams, a succession of scraping sounds held back by the leather between her teeth, when Jesse pours vodka over her shoulder. Her fingernails grip his arm enough for them to leave bright red crescents where they bite his skin. He shows her the bullet afterwards with a kind smile and, like a good doctor, says "See? Just like an ant bite." When it is over, Beca takes Stacie's face and tells her to, next time, wear something more bullet-friendly. Like, say, actual clothes. Stacie laughs breathlessly, which turns into a mild sobbing, and then she's crying as Beca hugs her and does not let go.

And though she wants to cry with her, she does not.

...

She is pacing in one of the rooms, bouncing a set of keys in her palm, when she feels a figure to her left.

"Hey," the figure says, and it's the third Treblemaker that she had never had the pleasure of getting acquainted with. She looks up, and he's holding a glass of water. "You must be Beca. I'm Benji." He hands her the glass of water, and she thanks him, sitting down at the edge of the bed.

"I've heard a lot about you," Benji says as he sits beside her. This freezes her movements, for there's a special kind of panic reserved for the threat of being discovered, or being _burned_, as it is in their line of work.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that—I meant, um..." his brow furrows in a way that Beca does not find completely repulsive. Which is saying a lot, considering that she finds most everything repulsive. "Jesse, he... likes to, um... it's not that he talks about you, but he..."

"Talks about me," Beca finishes for him. This lightens the mood a great deal, and she becomes the receiving end of a genuine smile, one that isn't different from the smile that has graced her mind too often nowadays.

"Not like that," Benji amends. "He has a way of saying things that doesn't make much sense except to people who really know him."

"And how," Beca starts, not entirely sure what's she's doing, "exactly does he talk about me that way?"

Benji then proceeds to enumerate the quirks of Jesse, the little tidbits of him that she has come to know. Beca cannot help her smile when Benji makes a Star Wars reference because obviously, they are best friends, and this just might be one of those wingman moments as so required by the international bro code. Also, maybe she understands the reference because, in a not-so-distant past that she has shoved away, she could still hear Jesse's warm voice, making a joke about Luke, one upon a time in the Bahamas. Memories follow, one by one, after that little detail; first his voice, then his laughter, his choice of words and images of him and the sense of him and the feel of him crash against her determination to keep him out of her mind. Listening to Benji narrate the finer points of him in the warm nothingness of morning reminds her of all the reasons why, sometimes, she would catch herself wondering, what if, _what if_...

_In another life, perhaps._

The hollow longing tapers into a sharp ache at the thought, because _this_ is her life, and escaping death is as close to happiness as she will ever get.

"And what do you know about _me, _exactly?" she says, when Benji mentions how Jesse speaks of her. The tinge of seriousness in her tone is completely deliberate. Benji thinks carefully about what to say...

"I know that you're strong. And that he looks up to you."

The words come to her slowly. She tests them in her mind, against the back of her tongue, trying to understand.

(She swallows wanly, against a warm longing that tells her that she does not deserve his admiration.)

"He cares about you, you know," he continues. "Jesse, he's... he's one of the best guys I know. I know it's not my place to say, but even if you don't feel the same, he will still care about you."

The shadows of his features dance when a soft breeze wafts into the room, disturbing the gentleness of the flames. What she would give, what she would do, to find a lie in his eyes, but there is nothing but sincerity in the blue that takes her in. The reality of his words creates a storm in her, and it does not yield, does not abate in the slightest, until she can feel it drown her from the inside out. _He cares about you..._

And, like a drowning man grasping for safety, her first thought is _I don't want him to._

"Why are you telling me this?" comes out in a voice that is too strangled by emotions she should not possess.

"Benji?" A third voice comes from the doorway, where Jesse is standing. "Could you give us a moment, please?"

"Um, sure," Benji nods, a little distressed to have caused Beca what he must think a terrible time. But Beca smiles at him when he glances back. Benji closes the door behind him, and then it's just her and him, together alone.

"Hey."

"Hey," she replies. The syllable sounds forced off her tongue.

"Can we talk?"

She tears her eyes away, gestures to beside her. He moves closer, sets himself just where she motions with the smallest movement.

"She's gonna be alright, you know."

"Yeah... I should probably check up on—" She stops, when, as she stands up, his hand reaches and takes her fingers. The contact tenses her every fiber, as though pulled taught by a current from his fingers.

"Beca..."

There's a gentle tug where his hand holds her fingertips, then he's standing right in front of her. Hues like afterglow paint his features in warmth, soft shadows dancing in the candlelight.

"I'm sure you're tired of hearing this, especially from me, but..." his jaw tenses when he turns his eyes towards where her fingers are in his. "You okay?"

But the question contains more meaning than she would like it to have. And maybe she wants to stay, and tell him that she is _not_ okay, and perhaps she never has been. Maybe she wants to scream and sob and let the wretched emotions take hold, for once, of her own accord. Maybe she wants the comfort of his arms around her, because they... _she_ will never be safe, except perhaps in the moments that he holds her. Maybe his safety is the only lie that she has ever wanted to believe. Maybe she wants to forget that she shouldn't care, because by god, _she does_, so much, _too much_...

"I'm fine."

There is a faint pounding against wood that pulls them back to the harshness of reality. Their senses sharpen immediately, and Beca feels his fingers fall away from her own.

Both Jesse and Beca move outside quickly, just in time to see Stacie and Donald jerk awake by the sound. In three seconds flat, the firearms are retrieved from where they were resting on the center table, and Jesse is on one side of the doorway, Beca on the other.

Another knock, this time followed by a voice in a sharp, British accent:

"Jesse, Beca, this is Luke. I come in peace."

Wide eyes are exchanged, silent questions, before Jesse peers through the peephole, and there is Luke, his hands up behind his head, waiting for them in a casual leather jacket that is much too hot for the current weather.

"I mean no harm. I'm here to help you," he says from beyond the door.

With an aggravated huff, Jesse tears open the door and pulls Luke inside so fast that the blond falls to his knees, the door shutting behind him and a gun pointed straight at him in no less than one swift movement. Luke's hands are still behind his head, with Beca's gun also trained at him, albeit with slightly less machismo.

Jesse can be a nice guy, but he is, first and foremost, a trained operative.

"Did anyone follow you?" he clips.

"No."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"How did you find us?"

"I trailed you to—"

"What are you doing here?"

"...Checking up on you."

"Bullshit."

The rapid-fire exchange makes Beca shift her eyes between the two. Stacie has removed herself from the sofa, choosing instead to stand by the corner of the living room, her one hand casually gripping the cloth on her shoulder. Donald cooly stands in front of her, knife in hand. Benji stands by the kitchen, watching with feet prepared for anything. There is clear tension between the two by the doorway, but it is completely unclear _why_.

"Why are you checking up on us?" Beca asks in a softer tone meant to placate the existing tick of a time bomb. Jesse throws a sharp look her way, but Luke turns slightly towards her, addressing her with a faint concern.

"Actually, checking up on _you_. You're under threat."

One thing about high-tension situations is that they are a tipping point; say the right words at the right time, and the potential energy present would tip in favor of one of two situations, disrupting the balance of power.

As soon as the words roll off Luke's tongue, he is taking Jesse's gun, pulling the other man down as he stands up to his feet, while simultaneously changing the safety of the gun. The clink of metal is paired with a shuffle of bodies and it's not more than three seconds before he has Jesse sprawled on the floor, disarmed and disrupted, with him now in the upper hand.

That is, until he feels something cold touch his temple.

"You better fucking put that down."

Luke sighs, more so out of exasperation rather than defeat. He turns the gun in his hand and gives it, handle first, to Jesse, who takes it and rights himself upward, a little off his game after what Luke just pulled. Luke then turns to face Beca, hands up and with a little scowl to see Beca so very ready to blow his brains out.

"I'm not here to fight, or argue, or whatever you two bicker on about. I'm not even here on strict mission, so please think twice before you pull that trigger and kill an MI6 agent."

"I could kneecap you," she snaps back in a way that has Luke believing she is absolutely considering the option. The smug tug on his lips lose it's brilliance.

"That is, erm... bit _drastic_. I come with completely noble intentions."

Beca tilts her chin up when she says, "Prove it."

"Search me. I'm not carrying anything."

They do search him, and he proves true to his word. When they are convinced that Luke isn't there to bring on another shitstorm extravaganza (like they haven't been through enough tonight), Jesse drags Luke to the other room without so much as a warning, with Beca and Benji following close behind (Donald does not leave Stacie's side, but his eyes do follow them with a wary glare).

Beca and Benji stop short, though, when the door slams in their face.

...

Gun in hand, Jesse resumes his offensive as soon as he shoves Luke in the room, closing the door behind him. "Answer carefully and to the point: how is Beca in danger, and what do you have to do with it?"

A brief moment of consternation crosses Luke's expression, before he gets it, and he's heaving a quiet sigh. "Oh... I'm sorry for the misunderstanding, Jesse, but you have it wrong. That was a bluff; I said it to confuse you in the moment." And then a curious furrow appears on his brow, and he's addressing Jesse more sincerely now, "Haven't you made a move on her yet, mate?"

Jesse does not look the least bit prepared for that inquiry. "What?"

But Luke merely slights his head in disbelief, and amusement, even as Jesse has the gun aimed right at his stomach. "I'm sorry, mate, but—_really_? Nothing? You're taking _this_ long to—"

"Seriously? Are you—we're gonna talk about this, _here_?" Jesse shushes in an annoyed whisper. "Why are you even here?" he adds, his gun lowering and his face showing that he is in absolutely no mood to take love advice from an MI6 field agent, off-duty or not.

"I got a call... there were whispers of someone getting shot. I heard it was the bl—one of the Bellas. And since this is the Mexican cartels that you're dealing with, I came over."

"Out of the goodness of your heart?"

"Oh, you know. I do it for the children," Luke smirks.

Jesse recalibrates the positioning of his gun higher, to the left region of Luke's chest, and Luke puts his hands up again, rubbing at his eyes in a gesture of severe exasperation. "Alright, alright, let me just... call Beca."

"Why?"

"Call her and you'll know."

Jesse throws the door open. There is Beca, leaning on the wall opposite, her eyes deep in a scowl that could distress a blind man. Jesse becomes the immediate object of her cutting glare when he opens the door, and she wordlessly walks inside.

"Hey guys, wha—" but the door is promptly shut in Benji's face.

(Benji looks a little lost, and from the living room, Donald shakes his head. Ah, the two idiots.)

Beca greets the two boys with an opening "You wanna tell me what's going on?"

...

Benji and Donald sit on either side of a tired Stacie. Because a tired Stacie needs to be kept away from the bottle of vodka, something which Donald is rather good at, she is also a grumpy Stacie. Benji, though, is more concerned with what's going on inside the room. Raised voices drift from inside like misunderstood signals in the yellow light, melding with the warm fuzziness brought about by the sleepless early morning.

"Lover's spat," Donald muses, before taking a sip from the bottle.

"How do we know what's going on?"

"They're probably deciding how to have a threesome," Stacie adds, her joke open to misunderstanding, given that she says it like delivering the daily weather report. Donald scoffs, while Benji wonders if that _had_ been a joke.

Before long, Beca is the first to exit the room, expression set clearly on "poker." The voices do not silence from inside, clear in the fact that, whatever is going on in there, it is _not_ a calm and peaceful discussion. But Beca pretends to be oblivious to them. She goes straight over to Stacie. "Stace, I'll be back," she tells her, pocketing something that looked like keys.

"Where you going?" Stacie's pallid face awakes.

"Out."

Beca smirks to show Stacie that there is nothing to worry about, because she is herself, and she is good at what she does. She kisses the top of Stacie's head, adding "Take care of her" addressed to Donald, before heading out. The sound of the door closing after Beca makes way for the sound of another door opening, and out comes Jesse, his expression fuming clear as day, even in the dim lighting of the apartment. He takes the jacket he had shrugged off, hanging on the back of one of the chairs, shrugging it on as he tells them the same thing that Beca had said, only in a more stressed tone:

"Stay here, we'll be back."

Then he's out, followed by Luke in more or less the same fashion.

(Stacie's eyes follow [read: admire] the wide expanse of muscle, also known as Luke's back, as it exits the room. "He's hot," she muses, while absently reaching for the vodka that Donald stands up and leaves with. She is mildly irritated when he goes inside a room and slams the door shut with her precious painkiller, but Benji shakes his head at her and wonders to himself if all Bellas are trained to be so incredibly oblivious.)

* * *

**AN: **DISCLAIMER: Removing a bullet from a bullet wound is _not _advisable, and you _should _get to a hospital asap. That said, since the characters herein do not have a choice, _of course I would totes make them take out the bullet! _I love worn-out TV action-necessity scenes. :D

I frikkin love Luke, as you can tell. Also, I got a review asking for more Stonald, which I am more than happy to give. ;) I really appreciate the constructive reviews that you leave me; thank you guys, so so much. I got several reviews requesting for more Bella/Treble moments, and don't worry, Chloe will play a major part soon, as will Aubrey. And wow, I once said that I'll have only a few OCs here, but man, do I suck at being consistent. :))

In sum: I love you all, I'm sorry, and I have no idea what I'm doing but I hope you guys like it anyway. This chapter is part 2/3, and is dedicated to Keri and E.A.L. Runaway and you and you and you, who actually read this 100k word fic, when it's not even _remotely _done yet.

Ya'll are insane and I love you guys.

_PS. For maximum angst, try some of the following songs that I used to write this chapter: Free Like You Make Me_ – Cary Brothers; _All You Wanted_ – Sounds Under Radio; _Can't Go Back_ – Rosi Golan


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